


I Should Have Said 'I Love You' Then

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Depression, Five Stages of Grief, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, John is heartbroken, Love Confessions, M/M, Reichenbach Feels, Rimming, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-02 06:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 72,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: What if John accepted the presence of his hallucination of Mary so easily because it wasn't the first person he'd loved who'd come back to him while they were dead?  This work explores how John dealt with the heartbreak of losing Sherlock after the fall.  It's an idea of how John spent some of the time in between the series we've watched.  It also takes an optimistic view of what could be in the future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers!
> 
> It has been a really long time since I have posted anything and I apologize most sincerely for that. I've been writing quite a bit but I haven't done much editing so I have a lot of back logged works that I am hoping to post over the next few weeks. 
> 
> An author (I can't remember who) wrote that the words "What if" are a sirens call to writers. That's exactly what this fic is. It was meant to be a sad one shot that took a quick peek at what might have happened if John had seen visions of Sherlock the way he did with Mary. But then the idea of writing John through the stages of grief with his apparition occurred to me and this work spiraled out of control from there. It's not finished yet, so I'm not sure how many chapters it will be but it's looking like 10-15.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. As ever my works are not Beta'd or Brit picked, all mistakes are entirely my own. I welcome constructive criticism and feedback, I also welcome kind words, too. Tagging is not my strong suit and I think I'm even worse now that I've been away for a while; suggestions for tags are also welcome.
> 
> Blessings <3

The world was dark and grey; there were no colours, there was no light, there was no warmth, there was nothing. The world had lost it’s meaning, lost any semblance of fulfillment John had ever known.

“You were the best, the bravest man I have ever known,” he murmured to the tombstone that he could hardly believe housed the body of his best friend. He should turn and walk away, he should leave this grave, he should start trying to remember how to breathe on his own again. The words he’d never managed to say got stuck in his throat and he brought his fist up to his mouth to clear them away and regain his composure. He wasn’t going to break down. He wasn’t.

“Just one more thing, for me Sherlock. Don't. Be. Dead.”

John had gone home and sat in their flat it was dark and it was cold; the constant whir of life, of purpose, was gone and John was left once again with nothing. And there, in the privacy of his flat John let himself break down. The tears fell faster than he could keep up with and his chest ached as it tried to force them out faster; the dam had broken and John could do nothing against the torrent of grief riding through his very soul. He curled into himself, pressing his nose to the arm of Sherlock’s chair and breathing deeply. Breathing in the small vestiges of colour and life that remained there.

No one would ever convince him that Sherlock had told him a lie and John couldn’t understand how this had happened or why.

\----------------------------------------  
  
Three days passed before anything changed. Three days that John spent mourning, weeping inconsolably (not that anyone tried), smashing a tea cup every time he went through the motions of making two, and he was angry. He was so angry. Greg had been put on probation and the authorities that be had blocked him from the investigation, he could have positively murdered Mycroft.

In fact, he'd crafted the perfect scenarios for committing the murder over and over again in his mind. With a gun, clean and easy; it would have been fast a bullet to the brain. With a knife into his gut, he could watch the life drain out of Mycroft’s eyes the sound of him gurgling and gasping loud in ears. With his bare hands; Mycroft could claw at his hands and gasp and beg, his eyes turning red around the edges and still John would have no mercy. The thoughts were disturbing and had crossed his mind more often than he cared to admit, it was definitely not something he spoke to Ella about. It was all a bit not good but his best friend was dead and he’d lost everything; he was entitled to murderous thoughts.

It was four in the afternoon when John gave up and decided to go to bed. He hadn’t been in to have a proper sleep in days and he was completely exhausted but every time he closed his eyes he saw it, the image of Sherlock’s arms outstretched toward the sky as though he were going to fly. He tread not up the stairs but down the hall into Sherlock’s room.

He pressed the door open and peeked around the door. The room was empty (of course it was), and the bed was made, there was a pile of books on the nightstand but otherwise the room was tidy, clothes in the hamper, suits hanging pristinely in the closet. John went to the bed and pushed back the bedcovers and crawled inside. He tugged the blankets up so his head was the only thing uncovered and he inhaled deeply.

He realized, of course, there was something a bit not good about trying to smell your best friend's sheets so that the world seemed a little less hopeless but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Sherlock had been far more than a simple best friend and John had just always been too afraid to admit it.

What made his chest ache and his breath catch was the thought that maybe he could have changed this, maybe Sherlock would have felt like he had choices if only John had been able to show him what he meant to him. If only John had been able to put into words and deeds the affection that he harbored for him, maybe this fate could have been avoided.  In his mind he'd replayed every moment he could remember of their lives together. Had there been a way that he could have made Sherlock see that he would have given anything for him, that he would have died himself to protect him?

John sighed softly and let the tears trickle down onto Sherlock’s expensive pillowcase as he slowly drifted off to sleep. A little while later, in that mysterious place between dreaming and consciousness, John felt gentle hands brush the hair off his forehead. He turned to the source and opened his eyes.

And it was like he could breathe again, it was like the sun had risen and illuminated everything that had been dark. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

“Hello, John,” the figment replied but his voice was just right. It was just the way he always sounded and it brought another wave of colour to John’s life.

John drew back the covers and patted the bed. He would never have been so bold in real life, he lacked that courage but now when it wasn’t real, now when his mind chose to offer him comfort, John would accept it. Sherlock slipped off his jacket and toed off his shoes before climbing into bed next to John and laid on his side. The two of them stared at one another for long moments and John felt tears slide down his cheeks.

Sherlock reached out and brushed them back with his fingers, and this if nothing else gave away the fact that this was not John’s Sherlock; Sherlock would never have known what to do, his Sherlock would have scoffed at his tears and told him sentiment was weakness. But this Sherlock of his imagination wiped his tears and let him cry.

“I miss you,” John murmured, the words forced their way out of his larynx like knives leaving his throat feeling bloodied and raw.

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “I miss you, too.”

“Why?” John asked, “Why did you leave me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock murmured, and here too John knew that he was just his mind’s fanciful imaginings, his Sherlock would never have passed up an opportunity to tell John he was foolish and prove how small his mind was, prove that he couldn’t see things the way Sherlock did.

“I can’t stay long,” Sherlock whispered.

And John found himself irrationally, achingly afraid. He reached out then and drew Sherlock into his body, wrapping his arms around him and pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock put his arms around John then and held him close.

“Don’t leave me,” John murmured into his skin. “Please, Sherlock, I can’t do this. I can’t live here without you, I don't know who I am without you here.”

“Shh,” Sherlock whispered and John fancied he felt the soft brush of lips to the crown of his head. Sherlock rocked him gently, trying to calm him like he was a child who'd awoken from a terrible nightmare and still believed it was real. But there was no waking up from this nightmare, there was only falling asleep to escape it. “It’s alright, you’re alright,” Sherlock soothed.

But it wasn't enough, his words were empty and hollow. This wasn’t alright, he wasn't alright. He would never be alright again. There was no recovering from this.

He was consumed by the need to touch, to take, to draw this into himself. He pulled back enough that he could see Sherlock’s face and he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. He cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands and he kissed him, moving his lips against Sherlock’s over and over until neither of them were breathing evenly. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, letting them feel their way along Sherlock’s perfectly formed skull. No cuts, no indentations from where his head had hit the pavement. John shuddered as the horrific images flooded his mind once more, the sound of the dull sickening thud of Sherlock’s body landing on the pavement echoed through his mind.

He sobbed wetly against Sherlock’s lips and his tears mixed with their saliva. “I can’t,” he gasped, trying to get a deep enough breath, trying in vain to get his lungs to expand and take in enough oxygen. “Please, Sherlock, please.” John opened his eyes and looked down at the man who had somehow ended up beneath him rather than next to him.

Sherlock stared up at him, he was panting and his eyes were red around the edges too but his pupils were blown wide and a flush had risen high on his cheeks. “What do you want?” he asked almost as though he was begging John to tell him, seemingly completely helpless and incapable of recognizing John’s need to feel him under his skin.

“You,” John murmured, his lips descending on the product of his exhausted imaginings again, “Only you.” He slicked his lips along Sherlock’s, “Always you.”

John started undressing Sherlock, then, his hands set to work at Sherlock’s buttons and he pressed kisses to every inch of skin, tasting him, feeling him, locking these memories deep down inside of himself even though he knew they were a lie. He licked and sucked at the skin he exposed, bruising the porcelain white flesh as though the man below him were actual flesh and blood.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, his voice coming out dark and positively wrecked.

John shuddered; the sound was so incredibly, intoxicatingly convincing. It set John’s veins on fire. How had he managed to produce such a sound in his mind when he’d never heard his counterpart in any context like this? “Yes,” John whispered fervently, pushing the horrid thoughts away to focus on the gift he was being given.

He sucked a beautifully formed, rosy nippple between his lips, sucking and nipping at it as Sherlock whimpered and wiggled. Sherlock’s fingers threaded through John’s hair and John groaned obscenely before sliding across to Sherlock’s other nipple and devoting the same attention to it.

When Sherlock was wiggling underneath him and panting, John sat up and finished sliding the buttons through their holes the rest of the way down Sherlock’s torso. “Sit up,” he murmured, pulling the sleeves off of Sherlock’s arms and tossing his expensive shirt on the floor without a thought. John ran his palms lightly over Sherlock’s chest. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed, “So beautiful,” and Sherlock shuddered under his fingers. “I should have told you,” John whispered the truth of the statement making his entire being ache. “I should have told you.”

Then he brought his lips back to Sherlock’s; he was desperate to feel him, desperate to taste him. Sherlock kissed him back, sliding his hands down John’s back and then under the fabric of his vest to stroke along his spine with his palms. John shuddered at the touch before sitting up and pulling his jumper off over his head. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he took in every minute detail of John’s skin. John marveled at the way his mind had captured Sherlock’s expressions so perfectly.

Sherlock’s fingers reached up and tentatively ran along the scar on John’s shoulder and John couldn’t help a wet laugh, “I have you pegged perfectly,” he murmured. “You would be most curious about the scar.”

Sherlock looked up at him but before he could respond John brought his lips to Sherlock’s and kissed him. While they kissed John pressed his hips into Sherlock’s grinding his erection against Sherlock’s hip and feeling Sherlock’s responding hardness against his own.

“John,” Sherlock begged against John’s lips and John nodded.

“I know, love,” he murmured. “I know. I want you Sherlock,” John whispered, “I want you so badly.”

“Then have me,” Sherlock rumbled back.

John shuddered and his hands slipped down Sherlock’s body once more until they reached the button and zip on Sherlock’s trousers. He slid it down and then tugged Sherlock’s trousers and pants off, following suit with his own not a moment later. Then John pressed his body to Sherlock’s. “You feel so warm,” John whispered, “So solid, so real.” John bent his head once more and kissed Sherlock deeply, drawing his lips off Sherlock’s over and over before returning and devouring them again.

Sherlock moaned against John’s lips and John couldn’t help but run his fingers all over Sherlock’s skin, trying desperately to store the way he felt and tasted and sounded away. Why hadn’t he done this when Sherlock was alive? He groaned and pushed the thought away, terrified that if he peered too closely at this mirage Sherlock would disappear and leave the incredible ache and emptiness in his chest once more.

Then Sherlock’s hands were on him, tentatively exploring John’s body as well. His palms slid up and down John’s back and then his fingers rubbed into the tense knots in John’s shoulders and neck. John groaned into the kiss and his hips pressed forward to provide his aching erection with some relief.

“Please, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asked, stroking his fingers through John’s hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything.”

And this too was all wrong for his Sherlock. His Sherlock was brilliant, his Sherlock wouldn’t have asked he would have deduced it. Or more likely, his Sherlock would have done exactly as he pleased, knowing John would follow along and delight in whatever Sherlock wanted.

“I would have gone with you to the ends of the earth, you know,” John murmured. “We could have run away from here, we could have gone anywhere in the world and I wouldn’t have cared as long as I could be by your side.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking. He rolled the two of them so he was lying on top of John in the v of his thighs.

Sherlock bracketed his head with his arms and his body covered John’s completely, weighing him down and making Sherlock feel even more real like he was alive and in John’s bed. He sheltered John and covered him, surrounding him and filling every one of John’s senses. John shuddered against him, “Yes, like this,” he whispered. He leaned in the few inches and sucked a bruise on Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock gasped, his hips rocking into John.

John wrapped his arms around him and drew him further into him, surely if he pulled him close enough they could meld into one being. “Can we do it like this?” John asked, his hands sliding down Sherlock’s lithe form until they reached his hips, one stayed there holding him in place while the other reached between their bodies and wrapped around their cocks, pressing them together.

“If this is what you want,” Sherlock groaned as his hips stuttered a bit in John’s grasp.

“Lotion,” John murmured, reaching for the nightstand and pumping a few squirts of lotion into his palm before returning it to the cocks.

Sherlock’s member was heavy in his hand; hot and velvety and smooth. So solid and real. John gasped and moaned as their heads rubbed together.

“Your hands are better suited for this,” John said with a groan as he thrust up into Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock hummed and brought his hand down to enclose their cocks, pumping and squeezing both of their shafts in his large grip. John groaned and released his grip as the two of their hips set up a rhythm in tandem. He brought his hands up and ran them along Sherlock’s back, feeling the muscles bunching under his fingers as Sherlock continued to thrust against him.

“I love you,” John murmured, leaning up and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s even as the tears at admitting it aloud filled his throat.

Sherlock let out an inhuman wailing sort of noise and the hand not wrapped around their cocks cupped the back of John’s head as though he were trying to draw him impossibly closer.

“I love you,” John whispered again. “So, so much.”

“I,” Sherlock’s voice was cut off by a gasp as John thrust harder against him, “I love you, too.”

And John came then, his cock pulsing all over Sherlock’s fist and their abdomens; Sherlock came a second later shuddering and gasping against John’s body. John held him close, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and up and down his spine.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s shoulder and started to pull away.

“No!” John cried out desperately. “Please, no, Sherlock please don’t go. Please don’t leave me.” His fingers scrabbled for purchase on Sherlock’s shoulders as though he could hold him in place, crushing Sherlock to him.

“Shh,” Sherlock soothed, “Shh. It’s alright, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” John felt him reaching over toward the nightstand and heard the sound of a tissue being pulled from the box, then Sherlock sat up, much to John’s chagrin and wiped the come from his belly. When the come was gone Sherlock binned the tissue and handed John a bottle of water off the nightstand, “Here, have a drink,” he murmured softly.

John complied, swallowing down the cool liquid.

When he finished Sherlock took the bottle back then laid back down and John rolled so he could face him.

John reached out and kissed Sherlock again, “I hate you,” John whispered against his lips.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that Sherlock’s were filled with tears, “I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s, “I don't really hate you, I can’t.”  John exhaled shakily, “Do you remember when we were running from the cops and you jumped over that bloody fence and I turned you around to face me through the bars?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I knew I loved you, I should have told you then,” John said with a yawn. He was feeling light and sleepy, almost like he couldn’t control whether he fell asleep or not. His eyelids felt so heavy and he was drifting off to sleep. “Please be here when I wake up,” he mumbled, his words coming out slurred with exhaustion.

“I can’t,” Sherlock said softly and John fancied that he sounded heartbroken about that fact.

John forced his eyes open again so he could see his best friend, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Then the darkness dragged John under and all of the light in the world was sucked out again.

\----------------------------------------------  
When John woke up the next morning, he was surprised by how well he’d slept. Memories of the time he’d spent with Sherlock flooded his mind but as he looked around he realized they couldn’t have been real. John was still wearing his pajamas and there was no trace of Sherlock anywhere, no bottle of water on the night stand, no tissue covered in ejaculate in the trash can.  There was nothing out of place from the night before when John had come to sleep in this room.

He crawled out of bed and went to the loo, when he was done he looked at himself in the mirror; he flinched away from the image. He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair was greasy and matted, he had the beginnings of a beard growing, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. Nothing had changed.  The world had still lost all of it’s colour; there was nothing for him here.


	2. Chapter 2

_Denial_

There were many dangerous words in the English language. Words that could lead to all sorts of outcomes both good and bad. But in John’s opinion there were few words more dangerous than the words _What If?_  Those two words had led him on all sorts of adventures.  They'd gotten him into loads of trouble, and had even led to having his heart broken a time or two by believing in people he shouldn’t have.

But those words seemed to be especially dangerous now.  They plagued his thoughts day in and day out. _What if_ Sherlock had faked his death? _What if_ the visions he’d had of the other man weren’t visions at all? What if Sherlock was alive and coming back to him? _What if_ Sherlock was out there now working at clearing his name? _What if_ Sherlock had just moved to a deserted island so he could escape the accusations? _What if_ the body on the pavement hadn’t been Sherlock’s? _What if?_

And these questions kept him awake at night. These questions drove him completely mad. So crazy, in fact that against his better judgement, he text Lestrade.

**How sure are you that it was his body they found?**

He set the phone down on the end table, but he needn’t have bothered, it started to vibrate a moment later. John glanced down at the screen, _Greg_ _Lestrade_ showed up and even though John had been the one to reach out, he still wasn’t ready to actually talk to the other man. He ignored it, like he had dozens of calls he'd received from the Detective Inspector since Sherlock's death, and let it go to voicemail.

A few minutes after the phone stopped ringing a text came through.

**Molly did the autopsy. We’re sure.**

But John couldn’t shake the feeling that felt suspiciously like hope blooming in his chest.  There was nothing for it, he was going to have to do some digging. After he got dressed he left the flat and headed to the one place he'd thought he'd never step foot in again.  Just the thought of taking himself there made him nauseous.

He was going to Bart’s.  

He hadn’t been there since that terrible day but he had to go back now. He told the cabbie where he was headed and sat back on the bench.  It wasn't until he tasted the coppery tang of blood that he realized he'd chewed his nails down to the quick.  With a conscious effort he put his hands in his lap, wringing them together and staring out the window. 

All too soon the cabbie pulled up in front of the building and John thought for a moment he wouldn't be able to climb from the cab.  Overcome by the sense of deja vu, John rested his hands on his knees and leaned forward to let his head fall between his shoulders, breathing slowly and deeply until he he overcame the urge to vomit.  He exhaled shakily and handed the cabbie his fare with a nod of thanks. Resolutely he climbed from the cab and marched into the building, keeping his eyes glued to the ground in front of him, he refused to look up at the roof.

It was easier once he got inside, he found that the nausea dissipated into a lightheadedness.  He descended the stairs to the mortuary, deciding it was better not to get into the elevator, and opened the door.  Molly was standing at the table in the middle of an autopsy and he found himself being as impolite as his counterpart had always been.  Instead of waiting for her to finish what she was doing he cleared his throat and watched as Molly jumped a bit and turned around.

“John,” she said, surprise heavily evident in her tone. “Umm, hi,” she said looking at her gloved hands and the bloody scalpel in them.

As he looked at her, looked at the blood on her gloves and the scalpel in her hand, John was certain that Sherlock couldn’t possibly be dead. _Molly_ _Hooper_ would never have been able to cut open his body, she would never have been able to perform an autopsy on the man she’d been in love with for as long as John had known her.

“Was there something I could help you with?” Molly asked uncertainly, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Yes. The truth,” John replied tersely as he fell into parade rest, his feet providing a solid base as his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “I want the truth, Molly. He’s not dead, is he?”

Molly’s eyes grew sad and John immediately knew he didn’t want to hear what she was going to say. “John,” she said softly, and John hated it. He hated that tone of voice, he hated the pity. He hated that she felt sorry for him.

“The truth, Molly,” he said firmly, staring steadfastly ahead.

“He’s dead,” she said softly but firmly. John heard the clinking of metal on metal as she set the scalpel down and then unmistakable snapping sound of medical gloves being removed.  John tilted up his chin, and his nostrils flared as she approached him. “They brought the body in to me and if I hadn’t been the one to do the autopsy I probably wouldn’t have believed it either. He was in a bad place,” she said. “Before he jumped, he wasn’t,” she cleared her throat and looked away from John. “He wasn’t himself.”

“Yes he was,” John said in frustration, finally snapping and looking at Molly from more than just his peripheral.  Sherlock had been just the same as he always was; brilliant and enigmatic, frustrated and exhilarated, manic at times and practically catatonic at others, a constant study in contrasts. “He was trying to solve a case, Molly. You know how he gets when he’s working on a case.”

She looked at him sadly for a moment, “Maybe you’re right,” she replied. “But either way John, he is dead now.”

There was something in the way she said it; something in the way she delivered it so matter-of-factly, as though it were a line she’d rehearsed, that John didn’t quite buy. “Right,” he said, “Thanks for your time but I don’t believe you, just so you know.” He turned on his heel and started walking toward the door.

“John,” she called out. He turned to look at her, hope blooming in his chest once more. She bit her lip, “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know what he meant to you.”

“You have no idea what he meant to me,” John replied curtly because it was the truth. She didn’t, she couldn’t. She had a schoolgirl crush on Sherlock, the type of crushes that girls who don’t know their own self worth have on boys who are cruel to them. She had no idea what it was like to come back to a world devoid of purpose only to have it found again in another human being; she didn’t know what it was like to have someone who you just clicked with, who matched your soul in every conceivable way. “Sherlock didn’t give you purpose and a place in life again,” he told her frankly, “He only gave you a broken heart every time he came around.” And perhaps it was a cruel thing to say, he knew it was, but he just couldn’t stand people’s empty platitudes anymore. No one knew how he felt, no one knew what he was going through, and if anyone did it certainly wasn’t her.

Without another word he turned and left the building, wondering what the best course of action to find Sherlock could be. He wound up tracking down some of the people he’d known were a part of Sherlock’s homeless network, but all of the people he could find told him they hadn’t heard anything.

It didn’t matter, John thought, as he marched home in the near darkness. He would start again tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that for as long as it took to find Sherlock. He wasn’t going to give up.

He went inside of the flat and headed up the stairs, he’d taken off his coat and shoes and was starting in on making up a pot of tea when he felt Sherlock’s presence behind him. It was a weird way to describe it but he couldn’t see the other man, he couldn’t hear the other man, he just _knew_ he was there. He turned and looked at Sherlock, “I’m quite cross with you, you know.”

“You’re cross with me?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Yes, letting me think you were dead all this time. You’re such a lying, manipulative bastard. How could you let me think you weren’t real?”

“Because I’m not real, you idiot,” Sherlock snapped at him. “Because you are projecting me, because I am a chemical defect of your grieving mind. I’m not here," Sherlock said in irritation.  "I’m not anywhere until you get too emotional and exhausted.”

John blinked at him, “I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Of course you don't. Because you are a sentimental fool and you can’t come to terms with the fact that your best friend is dead. Go back to therapy. Go tell your shrink that Sherlock Holmes is alive and maybe tell her the two of you have sex every so often when he shows up. Tell me what she says,” Sherlock said coldly. “Or better yet don’t, because I am merely an extension of your consciousness so I’ll already know.”

"But I can see you, I see your eyes so full of colour and life.  I see your windswept curls and your cheekbones and your lips. I can hear your voice," John murmured.  He leaned in closer to Sherlock and Sherlock's body froze, "I can smell you; your body wash and the hint of sweat." He moved in closer so he could touch Sherlock, he took his hands in his, “I can feel you,” he whispered. “I can feel the heat of your skin.”  He slid his fingers up Sherlock’s wrists and circled his pulse, “I can feel your heartbeat.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s neck, “I can taste the saltiness of your skin.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, running his tongue along the bottom lip. “I can taste the cigarette you smoked before you came here and the toothpaste you tried to use to cover it up so I wouldn’t know.”

“I’m not real, John,” Sherlock said firmly, drawing his hand from John’s and taking several steps back out of his grasp. “This isn’t real, this isn’t happening," he said as he gestured between the two of them. "You’re having a psychotic break. This is insanity, John.”

“But if I can’t believe what I can see, and hear, and taste, and feel, what am I meant to believe? The thing claiming to be a figment of my imagination? How does that make any more sense?” John asked obstinately.

Sherlock groaned in frustration. “You’re insane. Has there ever been evidence that I was here when you wake up? Think about what your senses can detect when you aren't so exhausted.”

John paused for a moment, he hadn’t really thought that part through. In the dozens of times Sherlock had visited him, there was never anything out of place to indicate that Sherlock had been in the flat at all. “You clean up before you go,” he reasoned.

Sherlock laughed without mirth, “John how long have you known me? Have you ever seen me lift a finger to clean the flat, even when you begged me to? I don’t do domestic tasks, why would I start doing them now? If I were actually alive do you really think I would be showing up here and trying to make you believe I was dead? Why would I do that? Wouldn't I be better off staying away if I was trying to convince you I was dead?  Why wouldn’t I want you to know if I was alive?”

“I don't know,” John said in exasperation, fear beginning to unfurl in his chest. “Maybe you’re trying to protect me from something.”

“By showing up here? If I were trying to protect you don’t you think I’d be staying as far away from you as I could possibly manage?”

“I don’t,” John started and then he shook his head, “I don’t know.”

“You do know, you're just being intentionally obtuse. I am you, John. How many questions have you posed that I haven’t answered satisfactorily? Have you ever known me to leave questions unanswered? Have you ever known me to want to prove myself anything but clever? I am you, so the questions remain unanswered. You know the truth John, you’re just refusing to believe it. You know the stages of grief, you’re a doctor.”

“Damn it,” John murmured, more to himself than to Sherlock because he knew he was right. As much as he didn't want to admit it, everything the Sherlock in his mind told him made sense. “I don’t want to believe you,” he whispered, his eyes misting over with tears.

“You have to,” Sherlock said agitatedly. “Stop looking for me. Stop this. You’re going to end up in a psychiatric ward.”

“I don't care!” John snapped, striding across the room and gripping Sherlock’s shoulders in his fingers. Feeling the solid flesh in his hands. “I don’t care,” he said again, his voice coming out in a broken whisper. “If you’ll be there, I don’t care where they put me. Stay, Sherlock. Stay with me.”

“Let go,” Sherlock said softly but firmly. “Let go of this delusion. Let go of me.”

And somehow, maybe it was just the tears in John’s eyes or maybe it was the fact that Sherlock was just a fanciful imagining but Sherlock seemed less solid, he seemed less real. “Alright,” John said softly. “I know you’re not real.” A shudder raced up his spine at the admission.  His chest ached and it felt like he'd been completely defeated, “Will you stay a while longer anyway?” he begged.

“You shouldn’t ask that of me,” Sherlock replied but his arms wrapped around John’s waist anyway. “You shouldn’t want me to.”

“I know,” John whispered. “But I do. It’s all I want. I’m so afraid of forgetting, so afraid of losing you.”

“You’ve already lost me,” Sherlock replied.

John’s heart shattered and an ugly, gasping sob escaped his lips. He collapsed forward into Sherlock, his knees giving out under him at the weight and finality of those words. “Please don’t be gone,” he begged. “Please don’t be dead.”

Sherlock said nothing, but sank to the floor with him, wrapping John in his arms, “You’re alright,” Sherlock soothed. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright,” John said.

“No,” Sherlock replied softly, “But it is what it is.”

John sat on the floor and cried and cried. He cried until there was nothing left and then he must have drifted into an exhausted sleep because he startled awake and found that he was alone again, just as he had always been and always would be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you darlings who are endeavoring to read this heavy, depressing work (there is a light at the end of the tunnel as you know). I just wanted to give a warning that this chapter is pretty dark and it felt intense for me while I was writing it. There are suicidal thoughts and conversations. I just want people to be aware going into it; please read this with caution if you have triggers related to suicide.

_Depression_

John couldn’t find the energy to move himself from his chair. He sat in the chair, in the clothes he’d worn for the past three days, without showering and without eating. He drank the occasional cup of tea when he could summon enough energy to brew himself some (usually after he’d forced himself to get out of the chair to use the loo) and Mrs. Hudson had been thoughtful enough to bring some tea to him a few times along with some scones and other meals that he couldn’t bring himself to eat.

There was no point. Nothing had a point anymore. Why should he even try to get out of bed? There was nothing he could do to make himself feel better; there was nothing anyone could do to make him feel better. There was no such thing as feeling better, no way to feel alive and no way to have purpose, and there never would be again.

He turned so he was curled up on his side in the chair; he’d watched Sherlock do it a thousand times and had always shaken his head and laughed because Sherlock had looked like a stroppy teenager when he did it. But John didn’t care what he looked like.  Besides, with the weight settled heavily on his soul he was sure no one would mistake him for a stroppy teenager.

Time was a funny thing, sometimes it passed so slowly and felt like an eternity between ticks of the clock and sometimes John would blink and when he opened his eyes the sun had moved to an entirely different part of the sky and the rays trickling through the windows hit a different part of the room.  He lost all semblance of time keeping as he sat there but eventually, after what might have been minutes or might have been days for all the difference it made, a ray of sunlight shot through the window and landed right in John's eyes.

He'd had a headache for what felt like a rather long time and the part of John that was still a doctor and a rational being wondered if perhaps it was a headache brought on by hunger.  Or perhaps it was a dehydration headache.  Or maybe it was a headache caused by the tension that John carried within every part of his being.

Whatever the case may be, John found himself drifting from his chair over to the desk simply to escape that ray of sunlight that was exacerbating his headache. He ran his fingers along the back of the chair, remembering all of the times he’d sat in this very spot and typed up the adventures that had made up his life. His fingers continued their journey as he sat down and allowed them to wander along the back of his laptop, his mind conjuring up the stupid spats the two of the had gotten into about which one of them had ownership of the laptop. It all seemed so foolish now, so pointless, he wished he'd just given it to him without a fuss.

Without conscious thought his hand drifted down to the drawer, he slid it open and stared down at its contents. His gun sat there, plain as day, just waiting for him to pick it up. It would be so easy, John thought to himself, so little effort would be required to pick up the gun and hold it to his temple. His hand drifted idly into the drawer and he caressed the cool metal before he picked up the gun and wrapped his fingers around it. The weight somehow steadying, bringing the world into focus the way little else did. It would be so easy, he thought, so easy to put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. He could do this, he could end this miserable existence; he wasn't doing anybody any good as he was. It would take so little effort. So much less effort than anything else he was forcing himself to do; less effort than making tea, less effort than eating, less effort than taking a piss.

The door to the flat flew open then and John felt himself jump in surprise, his hand holding the gun spun around to level the weapon at the intruder.

“You completely and utter moron,” Sherlock snapped. “Put the damned gun away. Better yet, give it here and let me get rid of it.”

For a long moment he stared at the other man, contemplating the words which had come out of his apparition's mouth. “You’re not really here,” John murmured, gesturing vaguely with the gun at him. “Although maybe I should think seriously about killing myself more often if this is the result.” John didn’t put the gun down, rather he turned it in his hand once more, pointing it at himself. “Then again, if I pull the trigger now, I’ll either die and know nothing or I’ll die and find you on the other side. Either of those seem like a better option than this.”

Sherlock was across the room in an instant and the gun was forcibly removed from John’s hand. “Put it down,” Sherlock growled low in his throat, his eyes were wild as he stared at John. “Put it down and never pick it up again.”

“Why?” John asked sincerely, looking up at Sherlock and really taking in the other man's appearance. Sherlock looked tired, exhausted really, which John thought was odd. Why would he imagine Sherlock being weary? “Why shouldn't I kill myself?"  he asked, feeling as weary in his attempts at answering that question as Sherlock looked. "You did.”

Sherlock winced, “Because a world without you in it is not a world I want to live in.”

“Well you're not in it,” John pointed out reasonably. “Furthermore, I could echo the sentiment, a world without you in it is not a world I want to live in.”

“John, you have to snap out of this. Here,” Sherlock said pushing John’s mobile across the table and into John's hands, “Call and order takeaway. You’re going to eat, you are going to shower, and you’re going to change your clothes. I’ve smelled homeless people who smell better than you do.”  Sherlock shook his head, "What is the matter with you?"

“What’s the matter with me?” John asked incredulously.  "Do you want to know what's the matter with me? My best friend who was also incidentally the man I was in love with killed himself. And not only did he jump off the roof of a bloody building, he did it in front of me so that every time I close my eyes it’s all I can see."  John closed his eyes to demonstrate his point and began describing what he saw, "Every time I close my eyes I see his arms are stretched out as though he thought he could fly, his hair whipping in the breeze.  Then for one moment, for one shining moment, I wonder if perhaps he can fly."  John swallowed, and forced himself to keep his eyes closed, "But he's falling and falling, his arms flailing and there's no way for me to get there, no way to stop this.  

"And then there’s the sound,” John shuddered, and his stomach turned, “The sound of bones breaking, the dull thud of impact as his body hit the pavement. There’s the sharp, coppery tang of blood in my nostrils; and I can see it, the blood pooling under his skull, the skull that housed the most beautiful mind I have ever known. Everytime I close my eyes I can feel of his still warm wrist in my fingers as I try to find a pulse; my hands were shaking so badly that I doubt I would have been able to find it even if it had been there.” John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock’s stricken face. “That,” John spat venomously at him, “Is what is wrong with me. And there is no recovering from this.”

“John,” Sherlock murmured, the word sounding somehow hollow and full of pain all at once. And then Sherlock was on his knees at John’s feet, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and pressing his face into John’s thigh. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

“I don’t know how,” John replied, but his fingers came up and stroked through Sherlock’s curls nonetheless. He was quiet for a moment before he decided that he may as well tell the truth, if only to himself. “I’m scared,” he said, “I’m terrified that if I forgive you, if I forget these things, I’ll be forgetting you. So as much as I hate this, as much as I want to be able to close my eyes without seeing your lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, I’m too afraid of losing all that I have left of you to do it.”

“Then forget,” Sherlock said, looking up at John with tears in his eyes. “Forget me if it means you can move on from this. Pretend none of this ever happened. Go and find a wife and have a child, have a simple, beautiful life and forget this pain, forget this place, forget me.”

“Never,” John said with more fierceness than he had felt in days.

“John, please,” Sherlock pleaded, “If I’m making you feel this way, just forget. I can’t bear the thought of your death. Please.” Sherlock’s fingers gripped him tightly, they wrapped in the fabric of John’s shirt and his knuckles turned white. John looked into Sherlock’s face.

“I’m tired, Sherlock," he whispered, and he felt the sentiment in his very bones.  Everything felt heavy, everything hurt, he was completely bereft.  "I’m so tired.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, nodding before his hands came up to cup John’s face in his palms, “I know you’re tired. But you’ll feel better if you eat something. You’ll feel better if you shower. You’ll feel better if you go out and find a job again. You’ll feel better if you go and do something. Please," he begged, "You’re scaring me.”

“Shhh,” John soothed, “It’s alright. Why does any of it matter, Sherlock?  You're dead.”

Sherlock shook his head and rose to his feet, trotting to the kitchen and ransacking the fridge, finally uncovering a plate of food Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier; lasagna, if John remembered correctly. Sherlock popped it into the microwave and John watched as he fiddled with the kettle. A few minutes later Sherlock came out and handed the plate to John, “Eat.”

“Kiss me,” John countered, tipping his head back to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes flitting between John’s eyes and lips. Finally he licked his own bottom lip and said, “Eat first, then I’ll kiss you for as long as you want me to.”

John groaned, “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s my line, and it’s my turn to force you to eat. Stop being petulant. Eat this food and then go get in the shower and then I’ll take you to bed.”

John groaned but he ultimately didn't have the energy to fight the other man, he reached over and picked up the fork. There was an audible sigh of relief as he brought the fork to his mouth, blowing on the food to cool it.

Once he’d take the first bite, John realized how completely ravenous he was, he finished the lasagna in short order. With a pleased hum, Sherlock carried the plate back to the kitchen and brought out a plate of biscuits Mrs. Hudson had baked the day before.

“Shame on you, John Watson,” Sherlock scolded as he set the plate down in front of John, “These are your favourites. She made them just for you.”

“I know,” John murmured as he picked up a biscuit and took a bite along with a few sips of tea. “She’s been very kind. Mycroft’s paid the rent for the next year, I think he harbors a great deal of guilt, as well he should.”

Sherlock nodded and picked up a biscuit as well, he took a bite and John watched the way he chewed and the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed before he stood up from his chair and pressed the other man against the desk so he could kiss him. Sherlock groaned and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, his tongue slicked along John’s bottom lip and John opened his mouth against Sherlock’s to allow him access.

Sherlock kissed him achingly slowly, running his hands along John’s back and cupping the back of his head to hold him close. Finally Sherlock drew back and John kept his eyes closed and steadfastly refused to move, “I love you, John Watson,” Sherlock murmured.

At his words John’s eyes fluttered open so he could look at his counterpart’s face. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Sherlock said softly as he stroked a thumb along John’s cheek. “You have to stop doing this to yourself, please. For me.”

John searched Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, not really sure what exactly he was looking for, “I’ll try.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him again, a brief touch of lips on lips, before he pulled back once more. “Time to get you into the bath. Come on.”

John shook his head and buried his nose in Sherlock’s neck, “I just want to be with you, please don’t make me get in there. You’ll leave me again.”

“I won’t leave you,” Sherlock said softly, pressing a kiss to John’s temple, “Not yet.”

“I don’t believe you,” John replied, his arms wrapping themselves firmly around Sherlock.

“I promise,” Sherlock said softly. “Take a bath, wash your hair, then we’ll go to bed and I’ll hold you.”

John shook his head again, he refused to let Sherlock out of his sight.

“What if I come in with you?” Sherlock hazarded.

John drew back from where he was pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder and looked at his face.

Sherlock stared back earnestly, “I’ll wash your hair for you,” Sherlock offered.

John swallowed and nodded, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Good. We can give you a quick shave and brush your teeth while we’re at it.” Sherlock grinned at him then, “You look old.”

John wasn't sure what face he made at the comment but Sherlock laughed and darted out of John’s arms toward the bathroom and John felt the most incredible and ridiculous thing happen to him in response. Those words sounded exactly like something his Sherlock would say to him and a bubble of light filled his chest, rising and expanding until it reached his throat and a giggle burst from his lips. “You’re ridiculous,” John said as he followed Sherlock into the bathroom.

Sherlock turned to him with a smile on his face, the soft sort that he only gave to John, “Yes well, it doesn’t make it any less true.”

John shook his head and moved closer to Sherlock, butterflies appearing in his belly as he started to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. He’d seen him naked before, but never in the daylight. Sherlock looked down to watch John’s progress before leaning forward and distracting John with a soft kiss.

John kissed him back and felt Sherlock’s hands move to the bottom of his jumper and start to tug it over his head. Somehow, it seemed to have escaped Sherlock’s notice that he would have to stop kissing John to get the shirt over his head so the two of them ended up tangled in the jumper, half in and half out. John pulled back and couldn’t help but grin as he tugged the shirt off over his head.

When he was out of his shirt he looked up at Sherlock’s face. But Sherlock wasn't smiling anymore, he was staring down at John's body as he ran his fingers lightly over John’s ribs, “You’ve lost 15 pounds in 2 weeks.”

“Sherlock, stop,” John said weariness crushing the tiny bit of light he’d miraculously found moments ago, he was half tempted to pull his jumper back on; indeed, had Sherlock not been a abstraction of his mind, he probably would have.

“Promise me you’re going to start eating,” Sherlock begged, looking up and catching him in the intensity of his gaze.  “Please, John.”

“Alright, you wanker, I promise but only because I am absolutely too tired to continue having this domestic with you.”

Sherlock looked appeased, “Well, turnabout is fair play. How many times did you completely wear me down about eating?”

John sighed, it did make sense that his subconscious would nag him about eating, “I wish you would stop reminding me that you aren’t real,” John griped.

“How did I manage it this time?” Sherlock asked, scrunching his nose in amusement.

“Because in reality, you wouldn’t give a damn about whether I ate or not.”

“Well, that’s not true,” Sherlock said, his hands moved to John’s trousers and John’s mind focused on that rather than on Sherlock’s words. “I always took you to get food while we were on cases. You were depressed when we first met, too, if you recall.  A John who is eating is a John who is happy and healthy.”

John shook his head and reached for Sherlock’s trousers, he unzipped and unbuttoned them and watched as they fell to the floor before he slid Sherlock’s black pants down his hips as well. He ran the palms of his hands along the smooth planes of Sherlock’s body, “You’re beautiful,” he murmured softly.

“I’m not,” Sherlock replied easily, slipping John’s pants down his waist before turning to start up the shower.

John couldn’t resist running his hands down Sherlock’s back and cupping Sherlock’s buttocks in his palms. He would never have been so bold if he were dealing with the real Sherlock, but he couldn’t see the harm when none of this was real anyway. “I’ve always thought you had a stunning arse,” John told him as he massaged those perfect globes in his palms.

Sherlock snorted and turned around, “I’ve always thought you looked perfect. Strong and soft all at once, you’re compact but somehow you always take up all of the space in the room. Sometimes you’re all I can see, all I can hear, all I can think about.”

John hummed and leaned in to kiss Sherlock again and Sherlock kissed him back for a long moment before drawing back. “Get into the shower,” Sherlock said, “We’re dawdling out here.”

Obediently John stepped into the shower, the hot water washed over his skin and John couldn’t help but think it felt surprisingly good. He sighed and settled further under the spray before drawing Sherlock in after him. Sherlock slid his hands along John’s torso before grabbing the body wash off the shelf, it happened to be Sherlock’s and John blanched, “Don’t,” he said softly. “I like to put that in with the laundry so the sheets smell like you. I don’t even know where you buy it.”

Sherlock ignored him and squirted a generous amount on his palms, “There’s a whole case of it in my closet. It was a gift from someone I helped. His name and contact information is on the box.” He worked it into a lather before rubbing it over John’s shoulders and chest then he worked his way down, sliding his hands over John’s belly before he rubbed a bit more into John’s hips and the upper parts of John’s thighs.  He rinsed the suds off before turning him around. “Relax,” Sherlock said softly, "I’ll take care of you.”

With a sigh, John leaned forward against the wall and rested his head on his arms.

Sherlock hummed softly and John heard the cap of the body wash open again and then Sherlock was rubbing his hands along John’s back, massaging the knots and the tension out. Before John knew it, the tension was releasing from his body and he found tears pouring out of his eyes as well.

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of John’s spine, “It’s alright,” he murmured softly. “Let go.”

John felt the tears start to really fall then, hot and fast as they poured out of his eyes. Sherlock stopped scrubbing in favor of wrapping his arms around John’s chest. John could feel Sherlock's body mold itself to his back, his face dipping down to rest in the crook between John's neck and shoulder as his chest sealed itself to John's back. He held him close to his chest while John wept and wept, his soul pouring out the ache without thought.

Sherlock held him close and let him cry, pressing soft kisses to John’s neck and shoulders and stroking his hands soothingly along John’s chest, he murmured sweet words that washed over John like the water and he continued until the shudders wracking John’s body stopped.

“That’s it,” Sherlock murmured soothingly, stroking his hands along John's chest and abdomen, “That’s it. You're alright. I’m here, you’re okay.”

John turned in Sherlock’s arms and kissed him. He kissed him hard and desperately because he knew how fleeting time was. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t going to be here forever and he wanted to make the most of it. He wanted Sherlock to know how much he loved him.

Sherlock groaned against his mouth and his hands clasped tightly to John’s skin as though he too knew just how quickly time would rush past, as though he couldn’t bear the thought of this moment slipping away from them. As though he was equally desperate for John to know how he loved him.

Sherlock drew back and sank to his knees in front of John, he wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pillowed his head on his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he murmured softly, so softly John could hardly hear him over the sound of the water in the ceramic tub.

“Sherlock,” John murmured in response, he stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s sodden curls, carefully untangling them with his fingers.

“Forgive me,” he whispered again, looking up at John through wet eyelashes, whether it was from the shower or from tears, John wasn’t entirely sure.

“You are the bravest, wisest man I have ever known,” John murmured softly, tracing Sherlock’s cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “You are the love of my life.”

“Forgive me,” Sherlock pressed.

John sighed, “Of course I forgive you.” And a slight weight lifted off of his chest at the admission. 

Sherlock turned his head and pressed a kiss to John’s belly, “Thank you, John.” He reached over and grabbed his body wash from the shelf again, “For what it’s worth, you are the only person I have ever loved.”

John felt himself go weak in the knees at the words but Sherlock didsn't seem to notice as his hands moved so he was cleaning off John’s legs and feet, studiously ignoring his genitalia before making him turn around once more. Sherlock rubbed up and down the back of John’s thighs and calves, running feather light fingers along John’s ankles before his hands slid up and he rubbed John’s buttocks in his palms.

John groaned and unconsciously spread his legs as far as the tub would allow, giving Sherlock a view of everything. Sherlock groaned and massaged his buttocks for a few more moments before getting his fingers soaped up again

and delving between John’s cheeks. John whimpered and rested his head on his arms once again as he tried to catch his breath from the spike of arousal that had spiraled through him. “Sherlock, please,” John said breathily, although he didn’t even really know what he was asking for.

Sherlock on the other hand, in a way that was very similar to their relationship in life, seemed to know exactly what John wanted. He spread John’s buttocks and John groaned, feeling open and exposed and connected to the man he loved in a way he’d hardly dared dream he might. Sherlock washed that patch of skin far more carefully than the area truly warranted, his fingers running smoothly over the skin from John’s perineum to his tailbone over and over until John was squirming. He looked down and he could see his cock had filled out and stood erect.

Then he felt the most spectacular feeling as Sherlock’s leaned forward behind him and his tongue tentatively made an appearance, pressing lightly against that delicate pucker of flesh. John cried out and his cock jerked. Sherlock drew back and rubbed his fingers over the area, John’s thighs started to quiver.

“Is that alright?” Sherlock asked, sounding far more insecure than John had ever heard him.

“Yes,” John groaned, attempting to spread his legs further, “Yes, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock spread his cheeks further again and then his tongue delved between John’s buttocks once more, flicking over John’s hole again and again. John watched his cock as precome started to bead at the tip only to get washed away by the water still pounding down on the two of them.

Then Sherlock’s tongue set about circling that puckered flesh, massaging and pressing, relaxing John’s hole. John whimpered, his balls were drawing up higher to his body and he felt the low thrum of arousal coursing through his body pushing him higher and higher, making his head feel foggy. Sherlock kept it up until John’s hole was relaxed and John wondered if it might be gaping, then he pressed his tongue inside.

John’s hole fluttered around Sherlock’s tongue at the intrusion and Sherlock groaned against that bit of flesh. He kissed and sucked and licked at it with the utmost devotion until John was constantly panting and crying out. Soft pleas fell from his lips over and over as Sherlock kept up the sinuous slide of his tongue against John’s flesh. Then Sherlock started thrusting in earnest, stretching John’s hole wide around his tongue and John came, clenching around that hot, soft organ in his hole.

Sherlock groaned and continued thrusting until John stilled and tried to catch his breath. Sherlock placed one more gentle kiss against John’s hole and then turned him around once more.

“Sherlock,” John whispered as he reached down and cupped the other man’s face in his palms. Sherlock’s looked up at John and he looked as wrecked as John felt. His eyes were red rimmed and contained a seemingly insurmountable amount of sadness. “Come here,” John said softly, attempting to draw Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock shook his head and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I’m not finished,” he said as he reached for the body wash once more and gently cleaned John’s now flaccid cock and his balls. John hissed with sensitivity and Sherlock gentled his touch further before he scrubbed John’s belly and thighs once more where his come had landed.

“Sherlock,” John repeated, trying to draw Sherlock to his feet once again.

Sherlock shook his head once more as though he was trying to clear it and stood up. “Let me wash your hair,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock, this isn't necessary,” John told him but turned around once more as Sherlock’s hands guided. Sherlock ignored his statement completely and a few moments later John felt gentle hands lathering up his hair with shampoo. Sherlock massaged his scalp before turning him and using a hand to protect John’s eyes from the suds as he rinsed.

Then Sherlock worked some conditioner into John’s hair, moving him out of the spray to let it set.

“I don't use conditioner,” John murmured watching as Sherlock soaped up his own curls. He ran his fingers along Sherlock’s chest circling his nipples which were already perfect, erect little nubs.

“Really?” Sherlock asked, his voice going a little breathy as John pinched and rolled his nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

John nodded and bent his head to take one of the dusky nubs into his mouth, sucking lightly.

“But your hair is always so soft,” Sherlock said, his back arching to press his nipple further into John’s mouth.

John pulled back and blew lightly on the tight little bud. “It’s just the way my hair is. It’s stupidly wispy; that’s why I have to wear product in it, not because I’m gay,” he said with a wink at Sherlock.

Sherlock chucked and put conditioner in his curls before switching places with John. “You are that, too,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I’m bi,” John replied. “Rest assured I was never faking it with my attraction to women either.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured as he ran his fingers through John’s hair, gently detangling all of the knots. John was sure it was no easy task. He hadn’t brushed his hair in days.

When he’d finished they switched places once more and Sherlock rinsed his curls. John let his hand trail down Sherlock’s belly and wrapped it loosely around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock let out a breathy moan and John took it as encouragement to stroke his cock a bit more generously. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s neck before opening his mouth and mouthing along Sherlock’s neck, licking and sucking at the smooth, wet flesh.

Sherlock groaned and tilted his head, his arms moving so one rested around John’s torso and so the other could hold his head to his neck. Then John started sucking, leaving massive bruises all along the column of Sherlock’s neck and clavicle.

Sherlock groaned, “What is with you and hickeys? I never noticed this affinity with your former girlfriends.”

John pulled back, “It makes you seem more real,” he confessed as he continued to pull on Sherlock’s cock adding a twist when he reached the head. “Bruises imply blood flow, blood flow implies heartbeat, heartbeat implies life.”

Sherlock stared at John with those large eyes that could be so many different colours, “I’m sorry.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s cock a little tighter and stroked a bit faster, “Stop saying you’re sorry. I already told you I forgave you.”

“I know,” Sherlock said around a gasp, his head tilted back and hit the wall with a dull thud. John felt his heart race a little at the sound but he forced himself to keep stroking, watching the steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest, watching his carotid artery hammering away in his throat, watching the delicate blush that was spreading up his chest and neck. He assured himself that the man in his arms wasn’t going to die, he couldn’t die.

“John,” Sherlock panted, his fingernails scratching lightly at John’s back. John picked up the pace another notch and then Sherlock was coming, painting John’s belly and thighs with his come. Sherlock groaned and John gathered him into his arms, they stood under the spray simply holding one another for a long time, they didn’t let go until the water had run cold.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, nudging John out onto the bathmat and drying him off. Sherlock dried him off much the way he’d washed him in the first place, slowly and with great care. He didn’t miss a single inch of his body, in his attentiveness.

Then as John reached for a towel to do the same Sherlock waved him off and quickly dried himself with the same towel he’d been using for John. He tossed it onto the floor in the corner. Sherlock led him over to the toilet seat, and sat him down on it then he got John’s face wet and covered it in shaving cream.

“You weren't joking about the shave, I see,” John teased.

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied seriously. “I hate it. And look at what it’s done to my skin,” he grumbled as he pointed out the stubble burn all over his cheeks and neck.

John chuckled, “I can do this part myself you know.”

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked teasingly as he put in the stopper in the sink and filled it. “Don’t you trust me?” he said as he waved a razor at John.

“I trust you with my life,” John replied easily, “Although I’m not sure I trust you with yours.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before they both burst out giggling. “John Watson, did you just make a joke?”

“I believe I did,” John replied, as surprised about it as Sherlock seemed to be.

“I’m proud of you,” Sherlock said with a grin as he set to shaving John’s face.

John was quiet and sat patiently while Sherlock shaved his face, smoothing the razor down his cheeks and tilting John's head this way and that to get the right angle.  When he finally finished, he looked quite pleased with himself.  He dried off John’s face with a fresh towel and ran his fingers over John’s cheeks, “That’s much better,” he said softly.

John reached up and took hold of Sherlock’s wrist to hold his hand in place so he could turn his head and press a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s palm. “I love you,” John murmured.

Sherlock’s eyes went soft as he looked at him, “I love you, too,” he whispered before leaning down and capturing John’s lips in a sweet kiss once more, his fingers stroking along John's freshly shaven skin.

Sherlock moved so he could straddle John's lap, sitting lightly on him so they were closer to the same height. John wrapped his arms around the other man, holding him tightly and his hands started stroking up and down Sherlock’s skin, touching every bit of him that he could reach.

“Sherlock,” John panted, “I want you to fuck me,” he tried to resume kissing the other man but Sherlock was drawing back to see John’s face better.

“Really?” he asked softly.

John nodded, “Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured as he ran his fingers through John’s still damp hair, “You don’t really seem like the bottoming type.

John grinned at him, “I’m the everything type when it comes to sex, Sherlock.  There was no shortage of things I wanted to do to and with you while you were alive.”

 

“We were idiots,” Sherlock said, shaking his head.

John smiled sadly at him, “Well you aren’t real, my love,” he murmured as he stroked Sherlock’s curls back off his face. “If you were actually my Sherlock you would be scoffing at me and telling me sentiment is weakness.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment and John stroked his cheek, “It’s alright,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss Sherlock’s lips. “Take me to bed and hold me, love me, make me forget this isn’t real.”

Sherlock nodded and stood, drawing John up after him, he wrapped John’s fingers in his and led him through to the bedroom. Sherlock laid John out on the bed but remained standing, looking him over from head to toe as though he were trying to decide how best to dismantle him. John shuddered and his half hard cock twitched at the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock moved to the nightstand and dug around inside the drawer for a few minutes before pulling out a bottle of lube and tossing it on the bed. John’s pulse thrummed in his body and he reached out to draw Sherlock toward him. “Please,” he murmured.

“I’m right here,” Sherlock said softly, achingly, as though the words somehow caused him a great deal of pain. He allowed John to draw him into bed and he pressed soft, sweet kisses to his cheeks and forehead, even pausing to press one to John’s nose before his lips finally landed on John’s.  
  
John arched into Sherlock’s kiss as Sherlock’s tongue slipped between John’s lips and his head tilted slightly in an attempt to better slot their lips together, in a bid to draw them closer to one another. Sherlock kissed him deeply and unrelentingly and John lost himself in the depth of the kiss.

Then Sherlock drew back, leaving John panting and blindly searching for his lips, but Sherlock’s lips were moving down John’s body. He tongued and licked at all of the skin he touched until he reached John’s nipples. Then he sucked one into his mouth while his fingers tugged at the other, flicking his tongue and rubbing the other simultaneously. John groaned and arched into the lovely attention from Sherlock’s fingers and mouth. His nipples weren’t incredibly sensitive, but the attention from Sherlock’s mouth and hands set a low thrum of arousal in his veins, and somewhere in the back of his mind, John knew he got off on the devotion and care Sherlock was showing him.

Sherlock drew back and blew lightly on John’s nipples before sliding down the bed further, his tongue delving into John’s belly button before kissing at John’s hip. Then Sherlock’s mouth found John’s cock and he tongued lightly at the head for a few moments before sucking it into his mouth.

John arched into the touch, whimpering, still feeling a bit sensitive from the orgasm he had earlier. Sherlock’s sucking gentled and his tongue rubbed along the flesh more lightly as he obviously noted John’s sensitivity.

All too soon Sherlock was pulling off John’s cock, “Roll over for me,” he requested softly and John did as he was told, rolling and presenting his bottom to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s palms moved so he was cupping John’s buttocks and rubbing the flesh in his palms. He spread John’s buttocks and John felt achingly open and vulnerable, it was a feeling that made a faint blush appear on his cheeks but also made his cock thicken further.

Sherlock ran a dry pad of his finger over John’s anus feather lightly, trailing it over that sensitive flesh over and over without pressing in. Then John heard the sound of the lube being uncapped and he gasped softly, “Please, Sherlock,”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s shoulder blade and then John felt a tentative finger pressing against his hole. John exhaled and rested his head on his arms and Sherlock carefully rubbed around his hole, massaging the flesh and relaxing it until John’s head felt floaty from all of the blood that had fled his brain. Then slowly, carefully, Sherlock pressed a finger into John’s hole. John exhaled and Sherlock’s name tumbled from his lips. He spread his legs further to give Sherlock more access.

Sherlock prepared him achingly slowly, his finger moving in and out of John’s hole with the utmost care, circling that sensitive flesh and gently urging the muscles to relax. He repeated the same process with two fingers, slowly pressing in fully and drawing in and out of John’s hole, scissoring carefully to stretch John further. John groaned at the feeling of fullness.

John felt his cock hardening up at all of this glorious attention and he couldn’t help the soft whimpering noises emerging from his throat over and over.

Sherlock slipped in a third finger and John barely felt as though he was being stretched further. He was starting to feel a bit desperate and still Sherlock didn’t start to move faster, he continued stretching John out slowly and carefully as though John was something fragile, something precious, when the truth, John knew, was that he was neither.

“Sherlock, please,” he groaned.

“Almost there,” Sherlock replied softly, pressing a kiss to John’s shoulder as he continued working John open.

Finally, finally, he pulled his fingers out of John’s hole and John heard a condom wrapper being torn open before the slick head of Sherlock’s cock was pressed against his entrance. “Are you sure about this?” Sherlock asked, rubbing against his hole.

John groaned, “Yes, I’m sure, what’s there not to be sure about? Sherlock, please fuck me.”

Sherlock pressed his cock into John’s hole slowly, gently, filling John and making him arch and cry out as he waited to be filled completely. John couldn’t ever recall a time when he had bottomed that there wasn’t some sort of pain involved, never terrible pain, never anything less than fantastic, but always with a twinge of discomfort. But that wasn’t the case with Sherlock, he’d been so careful, so gentle that John didn’t even have the slightest twinge of pain.

Finally John felt Sherlock’s hips come to rest against his arse and they both groaned in tandem. Sherlock covered John’s entire body with his own, and John felt for a moment as though the two of them were going to simply meld into one.

“Sherlock,” John groaned, “Move, please move.”

Sherlock nodded shakily against his back and his hips started moving inexorably slowly. His cock pulled out of John’s hole and pressed back in, brushing his prostate and making John cry out in ecstasy. Sherlock kept up like this for some time, and John felt as though his cock were just pressing further and further into his body, he was floating along on heat and endorphins.

“How are you even doing that?” John murmured.

Sherlock’s hips stilled and John groaned, “Doing what?” Sherlock asked sounding painfully insecure.

John craned his neck to look over his shoulder at Sherlock, surprised by the tone of voice. Sherlock’s brow was furrowed and he was examining John as though he could find something there. “Sherlock,” John started slowly, “Are you..” he trailed off uncertainly, “Have you never done this before?”

“Am I doing it wrong?” Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

“No,” John said, shaking his head, “Not at all, on the contrary, actually.” John groaned his neck was starting to crick, he needed to move; he needed to see Sherlock, he hadn’t even been thinking about what was going through the other man’s head, he’d just been lost in his own pleasure. But he really didn’t want to move. “Let me roll over,” he said.

Sherlock pulled out of John and scuttled to the edge of the bed, John flopped over on his back, his cock painfully hard, his hole still feeling pleasantly stretched. “Come back here,” he said, taking Sherlock’s hand and drawing him back between his legs.

Sherlock came carefully toward him, moving cautiously and not putting any of his weight on John as though he was afraid he was going to hurt him. Maybe he was afraid he was going to hurt him John mused. “You aren’t going to hurt me,” John whispered softly, stroking his thumb along Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock looked up at him with huge, terrified eyes, “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” John asked, he wasn’t sure how his mind had created a Sherlock this timid, this sweet.  Perhaps this was his mind's way of making up for all of the terrible sensory experiences it continued to inflict on him.

“That I did it wrong,” he murmured. “I wanted you to enjoy it.”

John reached up and pulled Sherlock’s lips down to his for a gentle kiss, “You didn’t do it wrong. It felt amazing, it feels amazing,” he said with a grin, rocking his hips up so he could press his arse against Sherlock’s erection. “I just didn’t know it was your first time. I would have done this differently if I had.”

Sherlock scoffed, “It being the first time doesn’t change how we should have done this. I’m not stupid and I have a thorough understanding of the mechanics of intercourse.”

“Clearly,” John murmured, “Now put your cock back in me and stop looking so nervous.”

Sherlock laughed and pressed his hips forward until his cock was nudging at John’s entrance once more. “You knew I was a virgin,” he pointed out.

John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist and looked up at him, “No I didn’t.”  But that was wrong, he must have or else the Sherlock who had shown up in his mind wouldn't be.

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock countered as he began to slide into John’s body. “Mycroft told you at Buckingham Palace.”

“Yeah but I thought Mycroft was just taking the piss,” John said. “And then we met Irene Adler and I thought for sure the two of you had something happen.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I liked her, but as a peer of sorts, not as someone I’d be interested in having sexual relations with. I’m not particularly interested in being dominated.”

John hummed a bit at that, “I don’t know if that's true. I’ve seen the way you look at me when I order people about, I know it interests you. Stay and we can give it a try after we have a little rest.”

Sherlock shook his head, “You’re incorrigible. I can’t stay, it doesn’t work that way and you know it.” He pressed his cock the rest of the way into John’s body and he stilled.

John sighed, “I know.”

Sherlock cupped his cheek with his palm. “Stop looking so upset, it makes me feel like I’m doing this wrong.”

“Well, generally speaking, to be doing it right, I’d need you to do a bit more moving,” John quipped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to rock in and out of John’s body, long steady strokes that quickly had John forgetting about their heavy conversation and floating along. He reached up and ran his hands down Sherlock’s back and shoulders, touching his hips and his ribs, all the while staring up at Sherlock and arching into his thrusts.

“I’m missing something,” Sherlock said, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“My prostate mostly,” John told him with a grin.

Sherlock looked mortally wounded and John laughed, “It’s fine, it's hard in this position, this still feels amazing.”

Sherlock shook his head and grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. A moment later he was physically lifting John’s hips, making John groan, as he stuffed a pillow under John to angle his body. Then he started thrusting at all sorts of angles to try and get it just right. John groaned and panted, he just loved having Sherlock inside of him; to be honest Sherlock could have just stroked his cock for a few minutes and he would have lost himself completely. But Sherlock seemed very determined and so John watched with a great deal of fondness as Sherlock attempted different angles.

That is until Sherlock hit his prostate and then John lost all composure; his eyes clenched shut, his head tilted back against the pillow, his fingernails clawed at Sherlock’s back, and his breath rushed out of him in a desperate moan. “Sherlock,” he groaned, tightening his legs around Sherlock’s hips.

“That’s much better,” Sherlock said and he continued to thrust at that angle, equally deeply but a little bit quicker than he had been before and John wondered if perhaps he was starting to lose some of his composure.

He kept it up, grinding against John prostate over and over again until John was crying out hoarsely with every thrust, his chest was drenched in sweat, and he was so close he could feel the tips of his toes curling and his balls drawn up tight and aching to his body.

“Sherlock,” he gasped softly, “Yes, Sherlock, please.”

At his plea, Sherlock started to speed up a bit more, his hips moving a bit more jerkily and John couldn’t help but start talking again, “Yes,” he groaned. “It feels so good, so perfect. Don’t stop, sweetheart, I’m almost there. Please don’t stop.”

Sherlock nodded shakily and kept up his pace, he was biting his lip, his brow furrowed in concentration, and John was overcome with the feeling of how much he loved this man. “I adore you,” John told him softly. “You are amazing and I love you, you’re all I want.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, dropping his face into the crook of John’s neck; his hips stuttering as he was starting to lose himself.

“Yes,” John groaned, “That’s it, darling. So good.”

“John,” Sherlock gasped out, “I can’t, I’m going to come. Please come,” he said desperately.

John intentionally clenched his hole around Sherlock’s member, desperately wanting to see him come and reached down to stroke his own cock roughly a few times before he both tumbled over the edge as well. John clung to Sherlock and shuddered against the other man.

Sherlock dropped forward collapsing onto John, he slid his arms under John’s shoulders and pulled him close. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, “That was fantastic,” he murmured.

Sherlock nodded but didn’t say a word and John felt moisture against his skin.

“Sherlock?” John asked, feeling concerned. But then he felt lips press against his shoulder; not tears then, just a mouth.

John stroked his hands along Sherlock’s spine, “I only feel alive when you’re here,” John whispered softly. “Which is ironic because none of this is actually happening.” 

They stayed locked together that way for a long moment, John was in no hurry to move back to his everyday life anyway. Eventually, Sherlock drew back and stared down at John. He stroked his fingers along John's cheeks, and forehead, and nose. “You are more than this,” Sherlock whispered. “You are stronger than this, stronger than I was. You can do this. I believe in you, John Watson.”

John might have replied, might have actually stopped to think about the words but then Sherlock's lips were on his and he was distracted. Sherlock kissed him and stroked his fingers through John's hair and along his face and neck like John was something precious, like he was something that mattered.

Finally Sherlock pulled back and pulled out, “Be right back,” he murmured as he started to stand.

“No!” John gasped, grabbing Sherlock's hand and tugging him back to bed.

“I'm just going to get a flannel,” Sherlock said.

“No,” John said again. “Come here.”

Sherlock sighed and grabbed a tissue, wiping up the come from John's stomach. “You're ridiculous.”

“You're not even real, don't judge me,” John replied, pulling him back on top of himself.

“Here,” Sherlock said handing John a bottle of water to drink.

John took a long drink before handing it back to his imaginary friend. The two of them snuggled into one another and were quiet for a while. John trailed his fingers feather light across his apparition’s skin but somehow seemed to be lulling himself to sleep. He yawned, “Remember when we went to solve that case in Baskerville and you thought you'd seen the hound?” John asked, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock nodded against John's chest, his fingers tracing over John's ribs.

“You were so worked up,” John murmured. “And you said, ‘I don't have friends.’” John shook his head, “I knew you didn't mean it. I knew you were just scared.” He scratched lightly at Sherlock's scalp with his fingernails. “I should have told you that I loved you. I wonder about that a lot,” John confessed sleepily. “I wonder if it would have changed things if you'd known I loved you unconditionally."  John yawned again, his jaw opening so hard that it cracked, " Sorry," he said. "I know you aren't a fake,” John said. “But even if you were, I still would have loved you. I wish I'd told you that.”

The last words John heard as he drifted off to sleep were, “I loved you, too.”

\-------------------  
John woke up the next morning and there were no signs of Sherlock. He couldn't help looking like he always did, but there was no tissue in the trash, the towel was still on the floor where'd he'd probably left it. The hair he'd shaved off of his face was in the sink and not on the floor around the toilet the way it would have been if Sherlock had shaved it. The gun was still in the desk drawer and not disposed of the way his imagined counterpart had desired. His dish from the lasagna he'd eaten remained in the sink and the plate of scones sat on the desk along with his half drunk cup of tea.

No, nothing had changed but he felt the tiniest bit better just the same.


	4. Chapter 4

_Anger_

Every fiber of John’s being vibrated at the injustice of what had happened to Sherlock. How could people be so stupid, how could they be so cruel? He could do nothing but stand back and watch while people who knew nothing about Sherlock Holmes ripped him to shreds in the media, while people who hadn’t been able to solve a damn case when Sherlock was alive were suddenly able to piece together all sorts of things and lay the blame on him now that he was dead. It was complete bull shit; these egotistical bastards who used Sherlock while he was alive to further themselves continued to do it now that he was dead as well, stepping on his corpse to get there.

And he was completely and utterly furious at Sherlock for jumping off that damned roof in the first place. Why couldn’t he have just trusted John? They could have figured something out, they could have made it work. And even if they couldn’t have cleared Sherlock’s name they could have just disappeared. It would have been easy for Sherlock.

No, instead he'd left him here to deal with all of the fall out and all of the mess.  It had been the absolute worst day imaginable (well, the second worst day imaginable, he'd already lived through the worst day imaginable and he couldn't live through it again.) He'd been brought in to be interviewed (interrogated, it had seemed like to John) about Sherlock. He'd had to sit through hours of people accusing his best friend of multiple counts of murder, of theft, and all other manner of horrific things that hadn't happened. He had to listen to complete bull shit explanations for how Sherlock committed crimes he'd never committed. If John had a pence for everytime he'd been threatened with being arrested, being subpoenaed in court, and being fined for his insubordinance he'd be a rich man.

The parade of officials that marched through his room to ask him questions and give him lectures about truth and justice had been one thing.  They'd been awful and John had felt like spitting at every one of them, had spit at one, in fact.  But what had really gotten to John was Lestrade.  The other man had come in at one point to give him a cup of coffee and had sat down, his words stilll rang in John's mind.   _Look mate, I know what he was to you.  I loved him too.  But antagonizing these bastards isn't going to help.  It isn't going to bring him back._   John had pushed the cup of coffee away, he wanted nothing from this man who thought these pricks deserved anything but derision from him.  He refused to dishonor Sherlock's memory by playing nice with these men.

He stalked around his flat and tugged at the roots of his hair, rebuking the words spoken against his best friend as images of the man he was currently so incredibly frustrated with filled his mind. His skin felt too tight, too small. He needed to get out, he needed to stretch his legs, needed to get out of this space, get out of his mind.

A walk. He needed to take a walk, maybe burning off some energy would help him settle for the evening. He went outside and started off at a brisk place, there was no destination in his mind, there was no point. He pushed himself into a jog and then a full out run, forcing himself to run faster and harder until his lungs were screaming, until his calves were burning, and his sides had cramped. And still he pressed on, reveling in the pain, reveling in the physical ache in his body that mirrored the ache on the inside.

He ran until his vision had started going spotty around the edges, his body was shaking from the strain and then he stopped, resting his hands on his knees and taking deep, gasping breaths. Even breathing now that he had stopped hurt. He was about to start running again, about to push himself harder and further when he hears a muffled scream. He trotted a few paces and glanced down the alleyway, he couldn’t make out what was happening in the darkness, all he could see was a cluster of people but something about it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Oy!” he shouted at them as he made his way down the alley.

As he got closer he could make out four figures, three looked like men and they were pinning a fourth person to the wall.

One of the men turned to look at him as John approached, he had a jagged scar from the corner of his eye that dragged down to the corner of his mouth and he glared at John. “Fuck off. This ain’t none of your concern.”

John peered around the man and saw that it was a young girl pressed against the wall, she had bright red lipstick on and her hair had been curled, kohl lined her eyes in an effort to make herself look older but by John’s estimation she couldn’t have been more than 15. She looked frightened and helpless, like an animal caught in a snare, her blouse had been torn and she had tears in her eyes running down her cheeks. “Let her go,” John said, his hands clenching into fists at his side.

The first man turned and looked at his cronies, laughing blatantly at John, “Do you hear that?” He turned back to face John, “What are you going to do old man? Did you want to come over and give me a cuddle in your jumper? Go home pops.”

John smiled. Then without another word he calmly stepped forward and punched the man in the face. The man staggered back cupping his nose in his hand before he glared at John and lunged at him. John used the man’s momentum against him, bending to catch him at the top of his rib cage and flip him onto the ground. The man landed on the ground with a painful wheezing sound. The other two let go of the girl, preparing to rush him. “Run,” John told her with a quick nod before turning to face the task at hand.

As John swung at one of the men rushing him, blocking his punch with his right forearm as he delivered an uppercut to the man's jaw with his left, the other man attacked from the side and slightly behind, landing a solid punch to John’s kidney.  John doubled over, his elbows tucking into his sides to guard his ribs as he gasped for the air the pain had stolen from him. He exhaled and pushed through it, leaning back and narrowly avoiding a blow from the other man, his arms instinctively closing to his sides to protect his ribs. He dodged the two of them again, then watched as they nodded at one another and rushed at him, perfect.  His body stilled and he waited for the exact moment that he could grab the backs of their skulls and slam their heads together.

One man fell to the ground like a stone and John registered that he was completely knocked out. He turned to the other man who seemed a bit dazed but was still swinging at him.  Dodging his blows was simple enough and John let him wear himself down before he cracked an elbow down on the top of the man's head.  The man fell to the ground and didn't move again.

John bent over slightly and rested his hands on his knees, panting to catch his breath.  He was surprised when a great weight settled on his back. A pair of arms wrapped around his neck and John choked, struggling to breathe as the man cut off his air. John clawed at the man’s arms but to no avail. He staggered backward and tried to slam the man against the wall, but he didn’t have enough strength and the man held on. The edges of John’s vision had started to turn hazy and he tried once more to slam the man against the wall when he heard a hard thud and the man’s grip slackened and he fell away.

John fell to his knees gasping for breath and fighting the urge to vomit as he started coughing. He looked over at the man who’d attacked him, he was lying unconscious on the pavement, a broken flower pot shattered next to him on the ground.

John rubbed his throat and looked up toward the roof of the building, he fancied he saw a pair of coat tails swirling away, but it could have been anything. A mere trick of the light, his own mind concocting something that wasn’t really there. More likely, the force of him slamming the man against the wall had simply knocked the flower pot down; up a few stories a person had several pots let sitting on their window.

He looked around the alleyway and found some old rope, he dragged the three men together and tied them to one another and then to the pole before taking out his phone and shooting off a text to Lestrade.

**Three men in the alley on Smithe Ave. They’re unconscious now but they were trying to rape a woman. CCTV footage will confirm.**

And then because John struggled with impulse control even on the very best of days and because Lestrade was doing nothing to defend Sherlock, he sent another.

**Just in case you feel like protecting the innocent today.**

He put his mobile into his pocket and left the men in the alley, he had no desire to see Lestrade again today or any day. Rationally, he knew it wasn’t his fault, not really, he knew Lestrade was just trying to help John now, but after everything that Sherlock had done for him, after everything they had been through together, John couldn’t believe that Lestrade hadn’t tried harder to protect him. And Sherlock was dead because no one had tried hard enough to save him.

He limped back home, trying to decide if there was a single part of his body that didn’t ache and went into the bathroom. He tugged off his jumper and vest and looked at his ribs, there was already a nasty bruise forming on his right side, his neck was bruised red and purple, he had a back eye, and his lip was bleeding. Yet somehow, he was more settled than he had been when he’d left. He was still unbelievably angry but at least his skin wasn’t crawling.

He jumped in the shower and washed all of the blood and sweat off his body, watching as the water turned red and brown as it pooled in the bottom of the tub. Finally when it had run clear again, he climbed out and toweled off. Then he returned to Sherlock’s room, it was a habit he hadn’t broken even though the bed smelled as much like John as it did like Sherlock. 

John crawled into bed. He heard his mobile ping with a message but refused to look at it, it was just Lestrade. He closed his eyes and tried to let himself drift off to sleep.

Some time later he heard the sound of footsteps near his bed, “Sherlock?” John ventured softly.

“You’re an idiot.”

John smiled and the bed dipped as the phantom in his imagination sat down next to him, near enough that he could smell his cologne and feel the heat from his skin. He’d gotten him just right, that’s exactly what his Sherlock would have said. Sherlock ran the pad of his thumb along the bruise on John’s cheek.

“You shouldn’t go out looking for trouble,” he chided.

“I didn’t,” John said, shrugging against the mattress, “I went out for a walk and trouble found me. Besides, what was I meant to do, let them hurt that girl?”

Sherlock sighed, “I suppose not, but they could have hurt you.”

“Pfft. No.”

“What if one of them had had a gun, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice tight.  "Then what?”

John shrugged disinterestedly, “Then nothing, maybe they would have shot me and I could have just died.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said sharply. “Don’t say things like that. Don’t even think things like that.”

At that John’s eyes snapped open and he looked at the man sitting next to him. He sat up and glared at him, “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t get to tell me how to feel and what to think. Not anymore. You gave up the right when you jumped off that fucking roof and left me here.”

“John, I-” Sherlock started, visibly taken aback.a

“No,” John said firmly, he was done listening to apologies and empty platitudes. “I’m so fucking furious with you, I’m so pissed that you killed yourself instead of letting me help you. I’m so angry that you left me here without any options, left me here empty and broken without a thought for what it was going to do to me. You didn’t think about me at all when you killed yourself so you don’t get to try and make me think about you when I’m talking about my own death.”

“John,” Sherlock began.

But John cut him off again, gripping Sherlock’s curls in his fists and tugging his mouth to his and kissing him harshly. Sherlock gasped and went pliant in his hands, letting John devour him.

“No,” John growled, pulling back to look at Sherlock. “No,” he repeated. “Don't do that, don’t go pliant and soft, don’t roll over and play de-” John cut himself off and cleared his throat harshly. He looked away from the other man and inhaled before looking at him once more, “Don’t give in and let me dominate you. You would never have let me do that, never. You never would have just let me have my way with you and I have no interest in it now.”

Sherlock’s hands came up then and he clutched John’s face before pressing his lips to John’s. He moved so he was straddling John’s hips and they tilted their heads in a violent clash of tongues and teeth. John groaned and raked his fingers down the outside of Sherlock’s jacket. Suddenly he needed them to be naked, he needed to feel Sherlock’s skin on his own. He needed to devour this man and take every piece of him, he needed Sherlock to devour him, he needed to give all of himself to Sherlock. And it was fucking unhealthy, it was completely and totally mental and John should probably start seeing a shrink again but it didn’t matter, all he cared about was this moment.

He pulled Sherlock’s scarf off his neck and shoved his coat off his shoulders and threw it to the floor before tearing the shirt he was wearing, popping the buttons off as he tugged Sherlock out of it.

“Fuck,” Sherlock growled. John shoved it off and then his hands moved to Sherlock’s hips, he cupped the bulge of Sherlock’s erection and Sherlock groaned against his lips.

John flipped them then so that Sherlock was lying on his back on the bed, spread out beneath John as John knelt in between his knees. John raked his fingernails down Sherlock’s chest, scratching and pinching at his nipples and leaving red lines down his pale skin. Sherlock hissed and arched his back, pressing into John’s touch, his arms thrown up over his head to allow John access to his body. His hands moved back to the erect nubs of Sherlock's nipples again and continued twisting and pinching them purely for the thrill of listening to Sherlock moan and cry out under his fingers.  "John," he cried, "John, please."  John dipped his head and nipped along the flesh of Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. He sucked dark bruises to the skin covering Sherlock’s rib cage.

Then he moved up once more, pinning Sherlock to the mattress and grasping his hands in his as he kissed him again. Sherlock groaned and arched into John, pressing against John’s hold lightly and groaning. And in that moment John had a brilliant idea, “I’m going to tie you up,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock shuddered, “Yes,” he hissed and John wondered momentarily if this was too far out of Sherlock's character or if this would have actually been something the real Sherlock would have enjoyed.

He slid off Sherlock’s body with a murmured, "Don't move," and grabbed the scarf he’d torn from Sherlock’s neck. He threaded it through the bars at the head of the bed and wrapped it around Sherlock’s wrists next. Then he sat back to admire his handiwork. Sherlock was stretched out on the bed below him, his arms stretched high above his head, chest heaving and covered in tiny bruises John had placed there. The bulge of his erection was obvious through his trousers and John groaned as he reached down to palm Sherlock’s cock through his trousers. Sherlock’s hips thrust up into John’s palm and his wrists flexed against the scarf binding him to the headboard.

John gave Sherlock a moment to roll his hips and press his erection against John's palm before drew his hand away from Sherlock’s thrusting and Sherlock whimpered at him, his eyes huge and pleading as he watched John's every move.  John slid the zip down and undid the button tantalizingly slowly and Sherlock groaned. “For fuck’s sake John, hurry up.”

John hummed thoughtfully, “I don't think so,” he said. He drew back from Sherlock and took in the entirety of his body, taking note of the way his chest was heaving, his nipples had formed tantalizing tiny buds, his pants covered erection was poking through where his trousers were open. He was beautiful and completely at John’s mercy.

John leaned in, being careful not to touch the rest of Sherlock’s body and took one of those rosy perfect nipples into his mouth and sucked. He sucked on it and rubbed at it with his tongue feeling the exquisitely sensitive flesh pebble under his tongue. The noises Sherlock made as squirmed and groaned under him were completely intoxicating, they went straight to John's cock.  Even as Sherlock's moans started to sound desperate and well past the point John would have normally teased him, he continued sucking and licking at that bit of flesh and Sherlock shuddered under him and his hips jerked. Then John bit down on the nipple he’d been toying with in his mouth and Sherlock gasped and his body practically convulsed, his chest flyingoff the bed as his shoulders flexed.

“John,” he panted desperately.  "Please, more."

John sat up and he took both nipples between his fingers, rolling them and pinching them, squeezing and tugging at them until they were both bright red and Sherlock was practically sobbing before he released his hold on them.

“John, please,” Sherlock begged.

John grinned up at him and slid his trousers down but left his pants in place. He raked his nails down Sherlock’s thighs and sucked bruises to the tender skin behind his knees. Sherlock arched into his touch and groaned at the slight edge of pain. John could see his cock twitching through his pants. He couldn't help but sit back and admire all of the marks and bruises he’d left on Sherlock’s skin with his lips and fingers, it made him so real, so tangible.

“I’m going to fuck you.”

Sherlock nodded fervently, “Please, John. Own me, claim me,” he looked off to the side and whispered, “Let me feel you for days.”

“Or you could stay,” John murmured. “Never leave me and you’ll feel me everyday.”

Sherlock looked up at him with sad eyes, “I doesn’t work like that, love.”

John growled, frustration and hurt blooming in his chest once again. He couldn't bear to see the sadness and the pity in Sherlock's eyes, it made his blood boil; this was Sherlock's fault, he didn't get to feel sad about it. He untied one of Sherlock’s wrists and said, “Roll over onto your hands and knees.”

Sherlock scrabbled to do as he was told, presenting his pants clad bum to John. John tied his other wrist once more and slid Sherlock’s pants down his thighs. He rubbed his palm over the pale creamy flesh of Sherlock’s buttocks and suddenly he wanted this flesh to bear his mark as well. He drew back a hand and clapped it against the fleshy part of Sherlock’s bottom. Not exceptionally hard but enough to leave a handprint blooming across his bum.

“Again,” Sherlock groaned out, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Please, John, again.”

So John, never one to deny Sherlock’s requests, did exactly as he’d been asked and brought the flat of his palm against Sherlock’s other buttock. Watching in fascination as the flesh jiggled a bit under his palm and went from white to red. Sherlock keened and his hips thrust minutely under the blow. “Unngh. Yes, harder,” he whimpered.

It wasn’t any hardship to obey, John had so much fire coursing through his veins and nothing to do with it. John kept it up, alternating between Sherlock’s buttocks and smacking Sherlock’s arse crisply until the other man was crying out in pain or in pleasure, John wasn't entirely sure but his cock was leaking copiously onto the mattress.  Sherlock's entire bottom was suffused in red marks and John could feel the heat radiating from his flesh. At a particularly well placed smack to his delicate sit spot just between his right thigh and buttock, Sherlock’s torso collapsed into the mattress, his arms giving out on him. But he kept his bottom up as he groaned and cried out his hands clenching into fists against the fabric of the scarf.

When John decided Sherlock had probably had enough and his bottom was suitably pink, he cupped both of his hands around Sherlock’s arse and rubbed his kneaded his buttocks in his palms.

Sherlock whimpered and pressed his bottom back into John’s hands. “I reckon that smarts a bit,” John murmured.

Sherlock nodded against the bed, his breath coming out in harsh, shuddering gasps.

“Alright?”

Sherlock nodded again and John reached over to the nightstand and squirted a few pumps of lotion onto his palms, warming it up before rubbing and massaging it into Sherlock’s flesh.

“John,” Sherlock whimpered and his legs trying to spread further and failing as his pants trapped his thighs.  He thrust his bum higher in and obvious invitation for John’s fingers to delve deeper between his reddened globes. “Please,” he gasped, “Oh, please.”

John teasingly trailed his fingers along the crease between Sherlock’s buttocks, intentionally drawing back before he got to Sherlock’s hole. He repeated the gesture over and over, slowly moving closer to Sherlock's hole on every pass, listening as the other man's pleas grew louder and more fervent with every stroke of his fingers.  Then his hands drew back entirely and Sherlock cried out in dismay. But his cry quickly turned into a whimper when John gripped his sore buttocks in his palms and spread them wide to look at Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock tried again to spread his legs further, groaning in frustration when his pants trapped him once more. John hummed appreciatively and continued to look at that beautiful pucker of flesh. It looked impeccably clean and John decided to try something he’d never done with any other human being. He leaned forward and breathed over that hole, hot and moist air flowing out of his lungs and onto that bud of flesh.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped, and John drew back in time to watch a long strand of pearly come drip from the tip of Sherlock’s cock and onto the mattress.

“Beautiful,” John murmured before setting back into Sherlock’s hole, he pointed his tongue and ran the very tip along Sherlock’s flesh, not pressing, not inserting it, just running it feather light over Sherlock’s flesh. He reveled in the way Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest and escaped in a long hiss. John continued like that for long moments, tracing Sherlock's hole with his tongue, flicking it from the outermost part of his hole to the very apex over and over.  And if John had loved the sounds Sherlock had made as he toyed with his nipples, he had no word to describe how he felt about the noises Sherlock made as he teased his perfect little pucker.  Slowly but surely, John pressed his tongue harder and harder against the flesh, massaging and relaxing and loosening that tiny hole until the tip of his tongue could slip inside. He groaned against Sherlock’s flesh and Sherlock shuddered and keened, pressing back toward John’s face.

John drew back then and slapped Sherlock’s still pink bottom. Sherlock cried out in surprise, “Stay still,” John growled.  "I am in control of this, I set the pace, do you understand?"  

Sherlock nodded, and he set back to the sensitive flesh, relishing the way Sherlock shuddered as he fought to control his body. He loved that he had managed to get Sherlock Holmes to abandon all pretense that he was in control of his transport.

Finally, when John’s jaw was aching and Sherlock’s hole was loose and completely drenched in saliva, John pulled back. Without preamble he pressed his forefinger into Sherlock’s hole and Sherlock cried out, his hands scrambling for purchase against his bonds as he thrust back on the digit entering his body.

“Does it hurt?” John murmured.

“A bit,” Sherlock replied with a nod. “But it’s good, so good.”

“Good,” John replied before he pulled his finger out again and squirted a bit of lotion directly from the bottle between Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock hissed as the cool liquid touched his sensitive flesh, his buttocks involuntarily clenched and he gasped again at the sting and the reminder of his spanking. “Fuck, you’re a marvel,” John murmured, “So incredibly sensitive.”

He ran his thumb along the crack of Sherlock’s arse, starting at his tail bone and tracing all the way down to Sherlock's rock hard cock.  Sherlock cried out, even at the tiny bit of stimulation John had given him and John wondered at how spectacularly responsive the other man was.  He gave Sherlock's cock a few teasing strokes, watching in delight as Sherlock's hips tried to thrust and maximize the pleasure from John's hands, before sliding his thumb back up and rubbing around Sherlock’s hole. He stroked over it, pressing the pad of his thumb in over and over before fully inserting his thicker digit. Sherlock keened and John twisted his hand so that he could thrust his thumb in and out of Sherlock’s body while his forefinger and middle finger rubbed firmly against his perineum. “John,” Sherlock cried out. John’s other hand moved so he was cupping Sherlock’s balls and he drew them down and away from his body, tugging at them lightly to keep Sherlock from coming as he continued fucking him with his thumb. Sherlock let out a stream of babble, his words coming out as slurred pleas interspersed with John’s name.

“Good boy,” John murmured before moving the hand clenching Sherlock’s testicles so he could run his fingers featherlight along Sherlock’s cock once more.

“John!” Sherlock cried out and John titled his thumb further, aiming for Sherlock’s prostate, he couldn’t quite reach it with his thumb but he must have gotten close as he continued rubbing at his perineum because Sherlock was all but weeping as he began to beg. “Please, oh, John. Please. I’m so close, I’m going to come, you’re going to make me come. Please don’t stop, please don’t stop,” he begged.

John didn’t stop, as much as he had planned to before they reached the point of Sherlock orgasming, his thumb thrust faster while his forefinger and middle finger pressed harder. He kept his grip on Sherlock’s cock loose and barely there but it didn’t seem to matter as Sherlock cried out, hoarse “hnngh,” sounds leaving his mouth on every exhale.

“Come for me, Sherlock,” John requested and Sherlock did just that, his cock pulsing in John’s grip as his hole clenched tightly around John’s fingers.

John groaned and rested his head on Sherlock’s back as Sherlock cried out and his hips continued to jerk.

“Beautiful,” John groaned before pulling his thumb out and wiping up the mess on the bed before it could really soak into the sheets. Then he grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed and settled it under Sherlock’s hips before guiding Sherlock lie down on it again. John rubbed another coat of lotion on Sherlock’s bum and Sherlock made happy, rumbly noises low in his throat as John dedicated himself to this task.  When he was satisfied that he'd covered Sherlock's entire bottom he spread Sherlock’s buttocks once more to run his forefinger over Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock hummed low in his throat, a soft, blissed out sort of sound that made John’s own cock throb with need. It occurred to him that since Sherlock was a figment of his imagination he could do exactly what he’d imagined doing earlier. “I’m going to fuck you and make you come again,” John murmured darkly in Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shuddered and John sucked the sensitive flesh of Sherlock’s earlobe into his mouth for a long moment.

Then he moved back, sliding Sherlock's pants down his legs and off his body. Sherlock groaned and spread his legs, apparently enjoying the ability his freedom from the confinement of his pants had granted him.  John squirted a little more lotion on his palm, coating his index finger thoroughly before sliding it into Sherlock’s relaxed body. Sherlock moaned low in his throat and spread his legs further. John leaned back as he continued to thrust his finger in and out of Sherlock’s hole to get the full effect. “Fuck, you’re stunning,” John said softly. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to store things the way you do in that magnificent mind.”

Sherlock groaned at the words and his hips rolled, pressing his mostly soft cock against the pillow. John chuckled, “You would have a praise kink.”

“I don’t have a praise kink,” Sherlock replied missing the mark of affronted by a mile because John thrust a second finger in alongside of the first and a moan emerged from his lips interrupting his indignation.

“So if I tell you how brilliant I think you are, that wouldn’t do anything for you?" John asked as his other hand moved to fondle Sherlock's balls.  Sherlock moaned at the contact, his hips tucking down and back to press his testicles further into John's hand. "What if I tell you that you are the most stunningly gorgeous human being I have ever laid eyes on? You’re the most incredible human being I have ever known. Just look at you Sherlock. Your body is perfection, your mind is incredible, and you are everything I have ever wanted.”

By this point Sherlock was panting a flush high on his cheeks, his fingers clenched and unclenched. John reached further forward between his legs and stroked his half hard cock, “See, not so uninterested,” John said with a hum, pressing a third finger into his body.

Sherlock groaned, “That is entirely unfair.”

“Why?” John asked as he brushed his fingers feather light over Sherlock’s prostate and felt a tiny bit of precome leak from the tip of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “Because I know you so well? Because I could have completely and totally dismantled every ounce of self control over your transport that you claimed to possess?" He pressed his fingers in and out of Sherlock's hole a bit faster, twisting them and spreading them to stretch Sherlock's hole, "Oh yes, my love, we could have been positively fantastic together.”

Sherlock groaned, “John, fuck me.”

“You’re not hard yet,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s half hard member in his hand.

“I may be incredible but I’m not sure I can get a full erection after an orgasm,” Sherlock joked feebly. “But if you do a good enough job hitting my prostate we may have a second orgasm after all.” He sighed and turned his head to look at John and John froze, he'd almost forgotten how Sherlock’s gaze could make him feel completely run through, completely seen. “I need you inside of me,” he whispered.

John stared at him his fingers frozen inside of Sherlock’s body, there was something about those words that made John want to hold Sherlock and never let him go.

Sherlock huffed and the spell was broken, “I’m not getting any younger, John.”

John laughed and rubbed his fingers over Sherlock’s prostate, “You’re an arse.”

“That’s nothing new,” Sherlock quipped but the effect was ruined by the way his head tilted back as he moaned from the pressure on his prostate. 

John withdrew his fingers and stripped out of his own clothing, admiring the picture Sherlock made in front of him while coating his cock in lotion. He pressed against Sherlock’s entrance, “It’s a damn good thing you aren’t real,” he nibbled at the skin on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Lotion is no substitute for actual lube.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock groaned, his head falling to the pillow as John pressed inside of his body. Finally his hips came to rest against Sherlock’s still warm arse, his hole clenching and unclenching tightly around him.

“Does it hurt?” John whispered, unsure why it mattered so much today. Frankly, he was a little worried about what was going on with his psyche that he wanted the Sherlock in his mind to be in pain.

Sherlock nodded, “It’s so good,” he whimpered. “So good.” He cried out as John pulled his cock out of his hole and then pressed back in. “Make me ache,” he begged, “John fuck me so hard I can feel it for days. Make my body hurt so I can feel the echo of your cock inside of me when I’m gone again.”

John shuddered, he hated the words, the implication that Sherlock was going to leave him, “Up,” he said as he tugged on Sherlock’s hips to get him in a kneeling position once more.

Sherlock groaned and obeyed, John took a fistful of his hair and tugged his head back. “Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured, “You are mine.”  He sucked a bruise into Sherlock's neck

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed as he cried out and tilted his head to grant John the best access he could, “Only yours.”

John shuddered again and released Sherlock’s head, “I love you,” he groaned out.

Sherlock shuddered around him, his arms had to stretch oddly to support him on his hands and knees and John knew his shoulders were probably aching, “Head down, relax your shoulders,” John said softly his concern for Sherlock’s wellbeing winning out even when it wasn’t real.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock panted.

“Sherlock Holmes, do as I say. Now,” John barked. Sherlock groaned and lowered his torso to the bed, John didn’t miss the sigh of relief or the way his body relaxed when the strain on his shoulders lessened. “We need to find the right angle. I thoroughly expect you to come a second time.” John took his time sliding in and out of Sherlock’s body, angling their bodies differently each time and Sherlock moaned and whimpered but he could tell he hadn’t found the right spot. It took a while bit he found it, draped over Sherlock’s back.  Sherlock cried out and a string of begging pleas flew from his mouth, his hips rocked back and forth on his cock.  His hands slipped under Sherlock's chest and he toyed with his nipples as Sherlock all but writhed under him.

John twisted his fingers as he gave a short, hard thrust and Sherlock cried out, his hole clenched tightly enough around John that John truly feared for a moment he was going to come. Sherlock’s hips bucked and pressed back, trying to get John to brush over that bundle of nerves again.

“I’m guessing we found it,” John said smugly.

“Yes, now find it again.”

“So bossy,” John murmured but he did as he was bid, sliding his hips back and pressing his cock into Sherlock’s hole achingly slowly, dragging his cock along Sherlock’s prostate.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, groaning out John’s name as John continued to thrust into his body. Sherlock let out a steady stream of whines and moans and the noise was intoxicating. The way his body clenched around John, squeezing him tightly and twitching around his cock was too much.

John groaned and pulled his cock out, he was going to come otherwise.

Sherlock cried out, “Why are you stopping?” he asked, sounding completely bereft.

“I’m going to come,” John replied through gritted teeth.

“Then come,” Sherlock encouraged, wiggling his bottom.

“No,” John said stubbornly, “I want you to come first.” He pressed two fingers into Sherlock’s hole and rocked them in and out of Sherlock’s body, pressing against his prostate and making Sherlock cry out again.

“John, please,” he groaned. And John thought perhaps he got off on the sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips, crying out and begging for mercy.

When John had regained some semblance of composure he pulled his fingers out and lined up his cock once again. He pressed into the heat of Sherlock’s hole once more and shuddered at how spectacular he felt. “You feel completely amazing,” John murmured, sucking another bruise into the skin on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“John, please,” Sherlock whimpered.

John reached down under Sherlock’s hips and stroked his hand along Sherlock’s still half hard cock. He could feel the come pressing out of Sherlock’s cock and wondered if it hurt, “How do you feel?” John murmured. “Does it hurt? Are you feeling sensitive? Overstimulated?”

“Full,” Sherlock conceded. “It’s like your cock just keeps going deeper and deeper inside of me every time you stroke. And there’s a fire in the pit of my stomach that’s burning me alive, everything is hot and achy but it feels so good, John. So good.”

John’s hips started to pick up the pace a bit and he couldn’t help but rock his hips hard enough to grind against Sherlock’s prostate until the other man was wailing and making completely inhuman noises. “Sherlock,” John panted, wrapping his fist around his cock and stroking, “Are you ready?” He could feel Sherlock’s body tensing around him as he thrust, the pitch of Sherlock’s cries growing steadily higher and louder. “Come for me, beautiful,” John murmured, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s shoulder blade. “Come for me,” he twisted his wrist and bit down on the flesh of Sherlock’s shoulder simultaneously and Sherlock screamed as his cock let loose another flood of ejaculate, weaker this time but no less powerful if Sherlock’s cries were anything to go by.

And then John was over the edge, too, thrusting into Sherlock’s arse twice more before stilling and spilling his ejaculate into Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock’s shaky thighs refused to bear his weight any longer and he collapsed, John followed suit, landing on top of him. Sherlock let out a soft oof sound but John could hear the contentment in his voice.

When the two of them had caught their breath John pulled out and untied the scarf, rubbing and massaging Sherlock’s shoulders to get the blood flow back into his arms. Sherlock groaned, “Sorry,” John murmured, pressing a kiss to each shoulder blade before moving down Sherlock’s back and spreading his buttocks to inspect his hole. It was a bit red and puffy but otherwise looked no worse for the wear.

“What’s the prognosis doctor?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily, his voice missing the heavily sarcastic tone it usually bore.

“I think you’ll live,” John said.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow and John swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“Stop bringing reality into my bed,” John murmured grumpily as he rolled Sherlock off the pillow that was covered in come and propping his hips.

“Technically it’s my bed,” Sherlock murmured.

He tossed the pillow onto the floor and pull Sherlock into his arms. “Don’t leave me.”

“I hate to,” Sherlock said softly. “There is nothing I would rather do than stay here with you.” He ran his fingers lightly along John’s chest, circling his nipple for a moment.

“Then stay,” John said equally softly, he would get lost in this fantasy world and never leave. They could commit him to a nuthouse and he wouldn’t care so long as Sherlock was there with him.

“It doesn’t work like that and you know it,” Sherlock murmured, pressing a kiss to the center of John’s chest.

John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls again wondering if he could keep Sherlock here if only he could stay awake long enough to do so. Sherlock sat up a few moments later, “Here, drink this,” he said as he grabbed a bottle of water off the dresser. “You aren’t keeping yourself properly hydrated.”

“Which one of us is the doctor here?” John asked as he took the proffered water bottle and took a long pull.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took it back, tightening the cap before setting it back on the nightstand.

“Do you remember that time that we got the phone call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot and you refused to leave Bart’s to go and see her?”

Sherlock sighed but nodded against John’s chest.

“You set up the whole thing, I can see it now,” he said softly. “But I was so mad at you, and then you said ‘Alone is what I have, alone protects me.’ I knew I loved you then," John murmured. "I should have told you.” He yawned hard enough to crack his own jaw.

Sherlock rubbed soothing circles on his chest, “I love you, too.”

John tried to keep his eyes open.  He tried to keep himself awake by stroking Sherlock's hair through his fingers, clinging to this moment with everything he had.  But it didn't matter, he couldn't keep his eyes open and his brain had started to drift into a fog, "I love," he started but his words trailed off and his fingers stilled in Sherlock's curls as sleep claimed him once again.

\-----------------------  
  
When John woke up the next morning he was still dressed in his pajamas and his pillowcase remained clean and unsullied. Once again, there were no signs of Sherlock.  He was as alone as he had always been.


	5. Chapter 5

_Bargaining_

John Watson wasn’t a terribly religious man, there were too many inherent flaws in organized religion; too much corruption, too much humanity. He couldn’t get behind something so obviously man made, something so full of human constructs and human understandings.

This was not to say that John didn’t believe in a higher power; there was a God somewhere, even if he could understand Him, even if he hated Him sometimes. He’d grown up Catholic but had gotten out of the practice when he went into the military. When he’d been shot his being out of practice hadn't seemed to have mattered, the first words out of his mouth had been, _Please God let me live._ Some habits died hard.

The months had worn on since Sherlock’s death and his appearances, which had happened with such frequency in the beginning were stretching out longer and longer between occurrences. He hadn’t seen him at all yesterday.

And so John had begun to play a game of sorts, this is how it began. John was lying curled up in bed one afternoon, staring at the door and waiting for Sherlock to come through it. He’d been asking for the other man all day, waiting and watching believing he must be coming. He hadn’t been able to get himself out of bed, what was the point if he would never see Sherlock again? A small voice inside of him was urging him to get up, to go and shower, to eat some food; he knew he needed to at least try to take care of himself but he just couldn’t do it.

He’d stared up at the ceiling, squinting as the voice tried to push him again, “Fine,” he grumbled at the ceiling, “Bring me Sherlock and I’ll get out of bed.”

“Hello, John,” the voice he’d been longing for murmured.

John’s heart skipped a beat in his chest the way it always did. He looked over at the other man who was standing against the bedroom door, his hands in his pockets as he looked at John from under his curls. “Sherlock,” John murmured.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, striding across the room and offering John a hand out of bed.

John took his hand and allowed himself to be tugged up. He leaned into the other man once he was standing and let his lips trail along Sherlock’s for a long moment. Sherlock stroked his cheek with his thumb and then drew back. “Let’s get you something to eat, yes?”

John nodded and followed the other man out into the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea and a few slices of toast with jam. He and Sherlock chattered inanely while he ate and John let his eyes drink their fill of his ghost. “I’ve started going to therapy,” John confessed as he drank the last bit of tea in his cup.

Sherlock nodded, his hands folded under his chin, “Is it helping?”

John shrugged, “As much as it can,” he said softly. He swallowed, “I’m not so angry anymore.”

“Why haven’t you told her about me?” Sherlock asked, reaching across the table to take John’s hand in his.

“I don’t really want to be admitted to a psychiatric ward,” John replied.

“Telling her about me might help you get over this faster,” Sherlock said, as though it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“There is no getting over this,” John said through gritted teeth.

“So, what do you plan to do? Spend the rest of your life sitting here talking to a dead man in your head?” Sherlock asked, and there was no venom in his words, no derision for John's sentimentality, not the way there would have been if this was really Sherlock, there was only weariness.

“Maybe,” John said derisively.

“You realize, of course, that when you are arguing with me about this you are arguing with yourself? You know this means that somewhere inside of you there is a part that says we can get over this?”

John turned that observation over in his brain for a moment. “Yeah, but you're the part of me that's not real,” John replied, feeling quite clever. “Besides look how exhausted the part of me trying to convince me to move on is. That must be indicative of how well that part of me is holding up."

"Says the man who couldn't even get out of bed without me," his fantom replied.

"Well, I got out of bed yesterday without you," John snarked.

"So whose point are you proving?" Sherlock asked, a ghost of a smile on his lips.  "I do believe my original thought was that you were going to get over this and look at you, already proving that you are."

John opened his mouth to reply then clicked his mouth closed, Sherlock had a point. "I hate you. Why don't I ever get to be right, even inside of my own head?"

Sherlock grinned at him before he stood up and moved around the table, he wrapped his arms around John shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I love you," he murmured.

"Yeah, yeah. You just love being right," John replied leaning back against the other man.

"I love that, too," Sherlock replied. He gave John a squeeze, "I do love you more, though. You can do this."

"You're a surprisingly good cheerleader," John said.

Sherlock rubbed his hands up and down John's arms, "Have a good day," he murmured before turning John's face toward him. He pressed a kiss to John’s lips then pulled back, “Close your eyes,” he whispered, brushing his nose along John’s.

John did as he was bid. Sherlock hummed and kissed him softly for a long moment, and then he was gone.

\---------------------------------------------

And that’s how the game began. John would exchange small things for a little time with Sherlock; mostly things that he should have been doing anyway like shaving, showering, eating, and all manner of everyday drudgery. He found it a bit ironic given that he'd always thought Sherlock was such a child for not wanting to do simple things like shower and get dressed on a weekly basis; he’d always been pestering Sherlock to take care of himself but he couldn’t manage it for himself.

In recent weeks, however, the small self care things had stopped working; he couldn’t offer getting out of bed and getting dressed anymore in order to see his best friend, probably because it’s something he would have done anyway. That was how this morning found John Watson sitting in his chair and staring contemplatively at Sherlock’s empty chair across from him as he wondered what he could possibly trade now.

That was when the idea occurred to him. And what a terrible idea it was, it was something absolutely abhorrent, something that he had no desire to do. But in a way, that was exactly how he knew it was what he had to give in order to see Sherlock again. All of the things he’d offered had been this difficult at first.

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Yeah, alright fine,” he grumbled. “Bring me Sherlock today and I’ll do it. I’ll start applying for jobs.”

“A job, hmm?” the voice came almost instantly as though John had been talking to him all along.

John tilted his head toward the door and drank in the sight of his best friend, he was beautiful and he took John’s breath away every time he saw him. Sherlock moved across the room, graceful as could be, and straddled John’s lap in the chair.

“What kinds of jobs are we applying for?” the other man asked.

“Well, I am a doctor,” John pointed out reasonably, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s spine, reveling in the happy sounding hum Sherlock gave. “I don’t think I’m going to find another mad, crime fighting genius who needs a blogger, do you?” John ran his fingers along Sherlock’s cheeks and neck, it was an action he’d committed hundreds of times but it didn’t stop him from doing it a few more. “Although I would be uniquely qualified for the position.” John let his fingers trail along the row of buttons on Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock hummed and his fingers stroked through John’s hair, “You’re getting grey,” he murmured.

John smacked Sherlock’s side where his hands had slid, “You’re a prick.”

Sherlock smirked at him, “I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he murmured.

“Yes well, I’m sure they’re all a byproduct of the stress you’ve caused me,” John said, feeling momentarily appeased in the knowledge that Sherlock liked his greying hair.

“You’re welcome, then,” Sherlock whispered as his lips landed on John’s. Sherlock kissed him, letting their mouths slide together slowly and sinuously, pulling away before setting back in at different angles over and over, their mouths making immensely satisfying sounds. John untucked Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers and slipped his hands under the shirt to touch the other man's skin, Sherlock gasped under his movement and kissed him with a bit more fervor.

Then Sherlock’s mouth left John’s and slid along his jaw, leaving wet kisses along the stubble there before he reached his ear. “It makes you look distinguished, ridiculously sexy.”

John let his hands slide down Sherlock’s back and he grasped the other man’s arse in his palms. Sherlock gasped against him and rocked forward into John’s body his lips sliding down John's neck.

“I love it,” Sherlock said through a moan, and then he was sliding out of John’s lap and dropping to his knees on the floor in front of John. He spread John’s legs and reached for the button and zip, making short work of John’s trousers and his pants. “Just imagine if you were still in the military,” Sherlock said, he grasped John’s cock in his hand and stroked the shaft slowly while he maintained eye contact.

“Are you suggesting I rejoin the military?” John asked. It wasn’t a bad thought, he’d had a purpose there, maybe he could have one there again. Maybe having something to fight for was exactly what he needed.

He lowered his mouth to John’s cock then, sucking for a long moment before pulling back again. “No,” he murmured, “Honestly you’d never pass the psych eval,” Sherlock said before letting his tongue slip out to flick over the head of John’s cock before speaking again. “I’m just imaging how you’d look in fatigues with that hair,” Sherlock groaned and then his mouth was on John's cock once more, sucking and licking at him with fervor.

John groaned and his fingers clenched in Sherlock’s curls, his hips thrusting minutely as Sherlock sucked. Sherlock’s hands rubbed up and down his thighs and he moaned around John’s cock. It didn’t take more than seeing Sherlock look up under his lashes for John to lose it and spill down Sherlock’s throat.

His eyes clenched shut as he orgasmed and he gave himself a few moments to come down before he opened his eyes again. When he did he knew Sherlock would be gone but he glanced around anyway just to be sure as he tucked his member away and cleaned up his hand. “I love you,” he murmured to thin air, sure that his imaginary Sherlock heard him just the same.

\---------------------------------------------

As promised John had applied for jobs, there weren’t too many offices hiring at the moment but that was just as well as far as John was concerned. He'd done as he'd promised and sent in his resume to a few different places and thought nothing more of it until one Wednesday afternoon when he received a phone call that asked him to come in for an interview. John had stammered an ineloquent, “Errm, yeah, yeah alright. Thanks,” before penning down the address and the date and time.

Today was that day and John was standing in front of his wardrobe trying desperately to decide what to wear to this bloody interview. He was holding up shirts and tie combinations when a voice sounded behind him.

“Don’t wear the checkered one.”

John glanced at the corner of the mirror and saw Sherlock leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t like the blue and white checkered one?”

“Well, I love it on you with a jumper,” Sherlock murmured as he crossed the distance between them, circling behind him and wrapping his arms around John’s waist. John sighed and leaned against him. “It’s very cozy and I do so love knowing how deadly you are underneath such a soft exterior. It’s a beautiful study in contradictions. But I digress,” Sherlock murmured, his lips pressing briefly to the back of John’s neck. “I think the blue and white striped one is better.”

John looked at the shirt in his left hand and held it up, “Alright,” he said with a shrug.

“No tie,” Sherlock murmured, giving John’s waist a squeeze before releasing him so he could dig into the closet. He pulled out a suit coat and hung it over the shirt on the hanger before holding it up to John. His lips twisted, “No,” he said as he tossed the jacket onto the bed.

“Don’t make a mess,” John said, turning to pick up the jacket and put it on a hanger, when he turned Sherlock had put a blue variegated button up cardigan over the shirt to hold it up to John. “Seriously? You think I should wear a jumper and no tie to my interview?” John asked incredulously. “You do know I’m interviewing to be a doctor, not a librarian don’t you?”

Sherlock smiled at him, his eye soft as he handed it to John. “Yes, it’s perfect for a family practitioner's office. People want you to be warm and easy; you’ll need to look like someone people can trust. You’re perfect in this.” Sherlock touched his lips to John's in a quick peck. Then he handed John a pair of trousers, “Get dressed, you’re running out of time.”

John did as Sherlock bid, stripping out of his pajamas and putting on the clothes Sherlock had picked out. He tucked in his shirt and smoothed his cardigan as he looked into the mirror.

“Hair,” Sherlock said softly, moving so he stood in front of John. John often left his hair forward or he parted it to the left, but Sherlock’s fingers combed through it, brushing it to the right.

“You’re parting it the wrong way,” John murmured.

“No I’m not,” Sherlock replied. “It’s better this way. Look.” Sherlock stepped to the side and John stared at himself in the mirror, he wasn’t really sure it was better but it wasn’t any worse.

He ran his own fingers through it before giving an approving hum. “Alright, what’s the worst that can happen? I’m already wearing a jumper.”

Sherlock smiled at him, “You’re going to be fine. You’re completely qualified for this job and there's no reason in the world that they wouldn’t hire you.”

“Tell me I’ll see you when I’m done or I’m not going to this stupid interview,” John murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips.

“You’ll see me,” Sherlock promised.

“Right, better crack on then,” John said.

With one last glance at Sherlock he left the flat and got a cab. The office he walked into was quiet, it was tidy and felt homey; it could have been very nice. John moved to the desk, “Hi,” he said to the secretary sitting at the desk, offering his hand as she looked up. “Umm, John Watson,” he murmured, distracted by the pair of soft blue eyes that met his.

“Hi,” she replied, a smile lighting up her face, “Mary Morstan.” She reached out and shook his hand. “I’m afraid we don’t have any room for walk ins today, if you’d like to make an appointment-”

“No, ah, no,” he cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m here for an interview.”

“Oh,” she said, glancing down at her computer screen, probably verifying the appointment. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry.” She blushed prettily and John found himself smiling at her in spite of himself.

“It’s alright,” he assured.

“She looked back up at John, “I am just so unused to Doctors who don’t introduce themselves as though Doctor is their first name. You'd think it is the most important thing about them. What a refreshing change of pace.”

John laughed and Mary covered her mouth and subsequently her smile but her eyes wrinkled around the corners in obvious pleasure, “Sorry,” she said, although she didn't really sound it, “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s,” John smiled, he glanced down at his hands surprised by this interaction, surprised by this woman, he looked back up at her, “It’s fine.”

Her eyes slid over John’s face and posture and for just a moment John felt like he was being analyzed the way Sherlock used to but then she smiled at him and spoke again, “I should fetch Dr. Graham. You’re going to think I’m an awful secretary,” she said as she stood and started moving toward the door. “Promise me you won’t turn down this job because I’ve been so terribly inadequate today.”

John laughed, “Ah, I promise,” he said, his tongue poking out to slide along his bottom lip. “If I turn down this job, I can guarantee it will have nothing to do with how charming you’ve been.”

Mary glanced down at the floor but she was smiling, “I’ll be right back,” she said as she disappeared through the door.

“I like her,” a voice rumbled behind him.

John smiled and glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, “Yeah?”

The other man nodded.

“Why?” John asked. “You never like the women I like.”

Sherlock smiled at him and John knew it was because Sherlock wasn’t here, it was easy to paint this woman as someone his counterpart would like when it wasn’t really Sherlock. “She makes you smile,” he said softly. “That’s enough for me these days.”

“Dr. Watson?” Mary called.

John turned to look at the door she’d disappeared through, “John, please,” he said as he moved toward her.

She smiled at him, “John,” she corrected, staring at him for a long moment.

“Was there something else you wanted to tell me?” John asked in amusement.

“Oh,” Mary said, a flush colouring her cheeks again; John couldn’t help but think she was rather lovely. “Yes, sorry. Go on through. Dr Graham is the first door on the right.”

“Thanks,” John said, giving her a smile. He walked past her but then he turned, “Oh, and Mary?”

She turned to look at him, “Yes?”

“I think you’re a lovely secretary.”

The interview was nothing out of the ordinary, Dr. Graham was just getting older and he needed the help. Sherlock had been right, he was entirely qualified for the job and when he rose to shake Dr. Graham’s hand he was offered the position.

“Could I have a couple of days to think about it?” John asked, his heart stuttering in his chest. This was a lot, this was a big change.

“Of course,” the other man said.

John nodded, his head spinning, “Right, thank you.” He wandered out of the office and moved through the door. Mary was talking to a patient when John came out and John thought it was probably just as well.

He was almost to the door when he heard his name, he turned to find Mary had come out from behind her desk and was standing a few feet behind him. “How’d it go?” she asked and she seemed genuinely curious, like she actually cared.

It was a strange change for John, it had been so long since a real, living, breathing person had cared about his wellbeing, had cared about how he felt and what he thought. It was almost jarring. “Umm, yeah, good,”

“Good,” she said, with a smile.

John nodded, “Thank you,” he said, “It was nice to meet you,” he told her as he turned to start out the door.

“You too,” she said.

He was almost through the door before he couldn't help himself and he turned back, Mary had already started back to her desk, “Mary,” he called.

“Yes?” she asked, turning to face him once more.  
  
John took a few steps toward her once more, “Why do you care?”

She smiled at him then, “I have a good eye for people who need someone to care about them.” She started walking backward toward her desk, “And besides,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “You’re cute.”

John tried not to smile too widely at the compliment, “Cute?”

She nodded, “Or handsome, or sexy, or charming; take your pick of adjectives,” Mary said with an impish grin. “It’s not sexual harassment if we don’t work together yet, right?”

John laughed, “I think by definition it’s only sexual harassment if it’s undesired by the other party,” he replied. “You are more than welcome to compliment me anytime.”

“Oh good, I was starting to worry you weren’t a doctor,” she said with a grin, “But there’s your ego peeking through,” she teased.

John laughed and glanced down at his feet. He looked up at her again, “It was really nice to meet you,” he murmured.

“Only nice?” Mary asked with a grin.

“More than nice,” John confessed as he started toward the door once more.

“Good,” she said. “Then call me tomorrow and tell me you’re accepting the job.”

“How do you know he offered it to me?” John asked.

“Because I told him to.”

\---------------------------------------------

The walk home had been an conflicting experience, part of John was floating along on air because it had been so ridiculously long since he had had a positive interaction with someone real. Greg and Mrs. Hudson had tried to help him, they’d been very kind but he hadn’t been able to have interactions with them that weren't stilted and forced. He just didn't know how to talk to them anymore. 

He wondered if maybe his experience with Mary had been so refreshing because it had been so far removed from his regular interactions. There was no mention of Sherlock, no attempt at steering awkwardly away from any mention of Sherlock, there certainly hadn’t been any attempts at comforting him. It had been a fresh start of sorts with someone who didn’t know him, who didn’t know any of the baggage he carried around. It was refreshing and John had been surprised to find himself enjoying it.

But on the other hand, he felt terrified of what this meant for the alternate reality he had set up for himself with Sherlock. And to top of his fear of what was going to happen he felt exceptionally guilty and like he was the least loyal person who had ever lived. He felt awful, was he really willing to trade his best friend for a job and some woman who had flirted with him?

By the time he’d gotten back to the flat he'd worked himself into quite a state and he was terrified Sherlock wouldn’t be here even though he’d promised he would be. As soon as he got upstairs he was calling for the other man, he went to check in the kitchen and when he turned around there he was, leaning against the doorway.

John’s chest opened up a bit and he took a deep breath. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here.”

Sherlock hummed, “Maybe I shouldn’t be,” he said.

“Don’t say that,” John told him, moving to cup Sherlock’s face in his palms.

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own. “But it’s true and we both know it.”

“No,” John said, his eyes misting over. “I’ll turn down the job," he promised.  "She was just a girl, Sherlock, she doesn’t mean anything.”

“But maybe she should,” Sherlock said softly, looking down at his feet for a long moment.  John watched Sherlock's throat bob as he swallowed.  With a deep breath, Sherlock looked back into John's eyes and said, “You should take this job. You should fall in love with this girl." He smiled at John but his eyes were shining with tears, "You should have a child. You deserve to have a life.”

“I don’t want a life, I want you,” John said through his own tears. “You are my life.”

“I was your life,” Sherlock corrected. “I’m just a ghost now, John.”

“Not to me,” he said. “You’ll never be just a ghost to me.”

“But I should be and you know it,” Sherlock replied.

John shook his head, his tears choking him. “Don’t leave me,” he begged.

“I am you,” Sherlock told him. “It’s time to let go.”

“No,” he whispered. “I can’t. I won’t.” He pressed his lips roughly to Sherlock's, a sob wracking it's way through his body.

“Shhh,” the other man soothed, drawing John into his arms, “Alright, it’s alright. We’re not ready yet."  He stroked his hands up and down John's back soothingly, "But I need you to know this John,” he said.

“What?” John murmured against his chest.

“When you are ready, and you will be, it’s okay.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear ones, I am terribly sorry for the delay- this is the result of working three jobs, I fear. Please forgive me. This chapter is also rather longer than the others and thus editing took more time than usual; finding a chunk of time long enough to edit in one sitting to get the flow of the chapter right was a challenge. Please accept my humblest of apologies.
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> Blessings. <3

_Acceptance_

John looked around the flat, he had so many memories here. There was so much life, and love, and laughter in this place. As he stared around these spaces which were so familiar he could have maneuvered them with his eyes closed, he could see the ghosts of his past, of their past, dancing in front of his eyes. He could see their lives, everything they had been and everything they had had the potential to be, and for a moment he knew what it must have been like to be his best friend who could see the world with such vivid clarity.

He had to leave this place, he had to move on. As much as it completely and totally broke his heart, and much as it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe at the thought of never seeing this place again, of never seeing him again, he couldn’t do it any longer. He couldn’t stay here and waste away to nothing pining for a ghost. Tonight would be his last night in Baker Street.

John walked around the room, running his fingertips over the surfaces that he knew better than he knew his own soul. He touched their bookshelf, thinking of how Sherlock so hated to have it dusted, _There’s something elegant about dust, John_ the echo of memory told him. He brushed his fingers along the mantelpiece running over the divots and the pockmarks from the knives stabbed there in fits of frustration. He smoothed his fingers over the back of Sherlock's chair and then over his own, remembering all of the nights spent together in various states; ecstatic joy, manic irritation, oppressive boredom, and everything in between; their lives had played out before them in this very room, in these very chairs. He ran the tip of his finger along the fretboard of Sherlock’s violin and the echos of all of the music he had made, of the beauty and the soul Sherlock had poured out through this instrument sounded around him followed and preceeded by the memories of all of the time spent listening to Sherlock playing abysmally because he was frustrated.

He moved to the kitchen and looked at the table marred with knife marks and stains from experiments and all sorts of madness. He looked at the emptied out fridge and he could see all of the mad experiments that had happened there, the heads and fingers, the complete disregard for all normal things. He ran his fingers along the bin where they stored their tea, remembering the hundreds of perfect cups of tea he had made for his flatmate out of love and devotion. He nibbled on a biscuit he pulled out of the tin he’d stashed away because he knew Sherlock ate them when he pretended he wasn't eating.

He would miss this place, he would miss these memories, he would miss his best friend with every fiber of his being; he would never not miss him, he would never forget this life. With one last look around John trod down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom, he wasn’t interested in seeing his, he’d already emptied it of most of his things and moved them into the new flat. He pressed open the door and stripped out of his clothes, slipping into a pair of pajama trousers before he climbed into bed.

He closed his eyes and the next time he had a cognizant thought he knew he wasn’t alone anymore. “I wondered if you’d show up tonight,” John murmured, his heart aching at the thought. His eyes stung and his throat felt tight.

The bed dipped and he felt a set of arms wrap around him. He exhaled shakily and rolled toward the other man burying his face into Sherlock’s neck. He couldn't always imagine the way Sherlock smelled; he couldn't even describe what it was that made him smell the way he did but the scent was intoxicating; he smelled like freedom, like purpose, like contentment. No, he couldn't always get the way Sherlock smelled right but he had tonight. He inhaled and tried to lock the scent away, tried to store it.

“I’m letting you go,” John murmured, his voice catching in his throat and not letting him quite get the words out without choking on them.

“I know,” Sherlock replied softly, his voice sounded heavy with tears and John felt his chest constrict sharply in sympathy at the weight of the words, at the effort it had clearly taken him to push them out. 

“I’m sorry,” John whispered. “I love you, I do. I always will. But I can’t,” his voice caught on a sob and John held his breath for a moment to try and compose himself. “I can’t stay here,” he said. “Please forgive me,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed but John could feel his chest shaking with his own set of sobs, “It’s alright,” Sherlock said thickly. “There’s nothing to forgive, nothing for you to apologize for.”

“But I love you,” John said through a gasp.

“I love you, too, John Watson. You were the light of my life, you were my everything. I was nothing without you and I didn’t know what happiness was until you came into my life and showed me goodness,” Sherlock whispered, his voice sounding raw and making John’s throat ache in response.

They clung to one another and John wept for what he told himself was the last time. Finally when both of their chests had stopped heaving, when their bodies had stopped being wracked by sobs, when arms weren’t gripping one another so tightly, John finally opened his eyes.

In the light coming through the window he could make out Sherlock’s face, he was stunning in the moonlight; his skin pale and ethereal, his dark hair a striking contrast and curls positively riotous, his eyes were huge and dark and John could have lost himself in them.

John stroked his fingers along Sherlock's cheeks, wiping away his tears with his thumbs. Sherlock sighed and his eyes fluttered shut at the touch. He pressed into John's hand and John's heart stuttered in his chest.

After a long moment, Sherlock's eyes opened and pierced John through to his core. “What can I give you?” Sherlock asked him. “What can I give you to remember me, this last time?”

John closed his eyes against the ache those words invoked and inhaled, counting to ten before he blew the breath out. “Just you,” John said softly.

“How?” Sherlock whispered, sounding vulnerable and achingly sweet.

“Get undressed,” John said softly.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's lips before he stood up out of bed and unbuttoned his shirt. He unbuttoned it slowly, not because he was trying to tease John merely because he understood the gravity of this. Because he knew time was fleeting and they both wanted to prolong each moment and draw this night out as long as they could. He slipped off his shirt and then his hands moved to his trousers, his fingers trembled slightly as they slid his zipper down then he pushed his trousers and pants down his legs simultaneously.

“You’re beautiful,” John murmured and he was. He was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. John knelt on the edge of the bed and drew Sherlock toward him, skimming his fingers along Sherlock's collarbone and shoulders. Sherlock's breath hitched and he whispered John's name.

John leaned forward, putting his hands on Sherlock’s chest and leaning in to kiss the other man softly, slowly, sweetly, drawing back from him and pressing forward over and over again until they were both feeling warm and John's entire body was tingling.

Sherlock’s hands wrapped around John’s hips and held him in place, his thumbs stroking over John’s hipbones. And still they stayed like this, kissing and exploring one another, John cupped Sherlock’s face and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls before stroking down his neck and running his fingers feather-light over his collarbones and shoulders.

Eventually John pulled back and the two of them spent a long moment catching their breath as hands soothed along skin. “Let me,” he whispered.

And he didn’t say anything more than that, but Sherlock was nodding fervently and John couldn’t help but marvel in that prefect trust, in that absolute devotion.

John tugged Sherlock onto the bed then and stripped out of his own pajama bottoms before he set to work dismantling Sherlock piece by piece. He carressed every curve and every dimple, skimming his fingers along arches and heels, ankles and calves, knees and thighs and hip bones, brushing his fingers along Sherlock’s concave belly and raised nipples, dragging his fingernails across his ribs before sliding his palms up Sherlock’s neck and tracing his jaw with his thumbs. Stubble prickled his fingers and John marveled at how perfectly, beautifully realistic his imaginings were. He traced Sherlock’s cheekbones with his thumbs and then stroked along his eyebrows with gentle fingers.

“I love you,” John whispered. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and I never will.” John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s before Sherlock could respond. When he drew back he murmured, “I would have stayed with you forever, gone with you anywhere, you know that don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes closed. Moonlight caught in the tears framing Sherlock’s eyelashes.

John pressed soft kisses to his eyelids, kissing away the tears, revelling in the shudder that wracked Sherlock’s body at his touch and then he began devoting attention to every inch of Sherlock with his lips the way he had with his fingers. Licking and kissing, and tonguing at his flesh, lingering on places that made Sherlock gasp or squirm. He dedicated his tongue and lips to Sherlock's flesh the way he had his fingers, hoping that perhaps he might store some part of the other man away to keep with him always this way; hoping that he might perhaps show Sherlock just how dear he was to him.

“I wish we’d had more time,” John murmured into Sherlock’s belly button. “I wish I’d told you I loved you. I wish I’d held you and kissed you and loved you while I could. I wish I hadn't been such a coward.”

“John,” Sherlock murmured, his voice sounding as though he were preparing to placate John and it was something John couldn’t take. Not from him, not about this.

“Hush,” John soothed, “It’s alright, it’s not your fault.” John continued kissing and stroking Sherlock’s skin until he'd reached his toes and paid due attention to each one. Then John moved and laid himself out across Sherlock’s body pressing their bodies together from shin to chest as he leaned in and kissed him. They kissed and kissed and kissed, neither wanting to be the first to draw away, they kissed until they started to get antsy and hands started to clench against flesh, they kissed until Sherlock’s erection was pressing hard in John’s hip. “Can I have you?” John asked softly.

Sherlock nodded and John leaned in to kiss him again while he reached into the drawer next to him and pulled out the tube of lube. He stroked his fingers through Sherlock's curls once more before sliding down Sherlock’s body and taking the tip of his erection in his mouth. He sucked and licked at the head while his dry fingers moved to circle Sherlock’s hole.

He laved at Sherlock's cock and Sherlock arched into his touch, his fingers carding through John's hair. "John," Sherlock whispered, his voice sounding completely wrecked already. "Please."

John looked up at the other man, admiring the beautiful body laid out before him, he pulled off of Sherlock's cock, "I adore you."

Sherlock's eyes opened and he stared at John for a long moment, "The feeling is mutual."

John trailed his fingers down to Sherlock's hole and brushed them teasingly along his flesh. Sherlock's head tilted back and his fingers clenched in the sheets as his hips jerked, pressing his body towards John's fingers.

"Your body is exquisite," John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hip and continuing to brush his fingers lightly along Sherlock's hole.

John kept teasing Sherlock's hole, simultaneously leaning in and licking and sucking lightly at the tip of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock whimpered and shuddered under John's ministrations, at a particularly vocal cry John looked up to see Sherlock had his bottom lip clenched between his teeth, and his fingers scrabbling at the bed.

He pressed a wet kiss to the head of Sherlock's cock and moved up to the top of the bed. John brushed his thumb along Sherlock's lip that was clamped in his teeth, “Don't hurt yourself,” he murmured but he needn't have bothered because Sherlock’s mouth has already opened as John's thumb had brushed it. He sucked John's thumb between his lips and traced his tongue along the pad.

John hummed and drew his finger back to replace it with his lips. Sherlock didn't seem to mind the trade, In fact, it seemed he felt quite the opposite if the way he clung to John's shoulders and neck as he kissed him was anything to go by. John kissed him, letting his fingers trail over Sherlock's sides, delighting in the whimpers and gasps his touches produced. He pulled away slightly and leaned up to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead before drawing back to look at the other man.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed and his breath was still shuddering as John touched him. "You," John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, "Are," another kiss to his chin, "Incredible," a quick peck to Sherlock's lips. He brushed their noses against one another, "I love you," he whispered.

Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked up at John, "John," he murmured as he stroked his hands along John's face. "I need-" he swallowed and cut himself off, shaking his head.

"What?" John asked, "Tell me."

"It's nothing," Sherlock said, looking away and taking a deep breath.

"Tell me," John whispered. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, "Please tell me."

"I need you to know how much I love you," Sherlock whispered, his voice catching and cracking over the words. He looked up at John then, tears in his eyes. "Please, always remember how much I adore you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me."

John kissed the other man, wiping the tears off his cheeks again.

"Promise me you'll remember," Sherlock whispered.

"I promise," John told him.

"Good," Sherlock said as he nodded shakily. "Now please fuck me."

John laughed, "How?" He murmured, thinking there were endless positions he longed to try with the other man.

"Well my general understanding of fucking someone involves stretching their anus and then putting your penis inside of them," Sherlock replied. "Then you keep putting your penis inside of them until you both orgasm."

"No, you cock," John said, laughing and brushing his nose along Sherlock's again. "I meant how do you want me to fuck you." He brushed his lips along Sherlock's before trailing kisses along Sherlock's cheek then he stopped at his ear. Sherlock's breath hitched and his entire body froze and John knew he had him hanging on his every word. John couldn't help but grin, he let his fingers trail down Sherlock's neck and chest until they reached one of his nipples. He circled that sensitive bud with the tip of his finger, "I can leave you like you are and settle my body between your legs," John whispered and Sherlock shuddered, arching into John's touch. "I can loosen you up and press my cock inside of you while you lie there and stare up at me," he elaborated. "I'll kiss your lips the entire time," he promised.

Sherlock started to nod and John continued, "Or I can roll you over and spread you open, I can rim you again the way I did all those months ago." Sherlock whimpered and the arm that had snaked under John's body clasped him tighter and his nails scratched at his back. "You seemed to enjoy that, if I recall correctly," John said feigning ignorance even though he was sure he remembered correctly. "I wondered if I could make you come just from my tongue?" John asked contemplatively, letting his fingers trail up and down Sherlock's stomach, dipping lighting into his belly button. Sherlock gasped at the sensation and John couldn't help but think the other man was perfect. “Then,” John whispered, “Once you're loose and mad with lust I'll stretch you with my fingers. Then I'll fuck you.” Sherlock shuddered, John's name slipping from his lips. “I'll press my cock inside of you so slowly, pressing in and out until you're begging.”

“John,” Sherlock moaned, his voice sounded tight and desperate.

John continued, “Or,” he murmured in Sherlock's ear, tracing his fingers along Sherlock's hip bones and making the other man squirm. “You can lay on your side, I'll lay behind you, and I'll put a pillow between your thighs to open you up that way.” Sherlock let out a soft sigh and John placed a line of kisses down Sherlock's neck before moving back to his ear. “I'd line up perfectly with your back, there would be no room in between our bodies. I could hold you so close to me, sweetheart,” John whispered. He buried his nose in his neck and inhaled deeply, fighting to regain his composure. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes were closed as though he were soaking up this attention through his very pores. His hand stroked down John's spine.

John's fingers skimmed along Sherlock's side, “Or I'm open to your suggestions,” he murmured. He looked at Sherlock's face, stroking his fingers along his cheek and forehead. “You are so beautiful.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked at John. “All of them,” he whispered.

“Hmm?” John asked, still letting his fingers stroke down Sherlock's face and neck.

“All of them,” Sherlock repeated, “Let me be selfish this one last time. I want all of those things," he whispered. "I want us to have those things."

John inhaled sharply, fighting the wave of sadness that this was their last time all over again; that there were things he would never get to do with this man. "I want us to have those things too," John whispered. "I wanted us to have so much more than that."

Sherlock kissed him, his fingers clinging to John's face, his lips desperate against John's. John was consumed by the desire to touch and taste, the desire to treasure this man the way he so clearly treasured John. He wondered vaguely if his chest would ever stop feeling empty and achy again.

John stroked his finger along Sherlock's back, caressing his skins and drawing him in closer over and over. He drew back and rested their foreheads against one another. "There is nothing I wouldn't give for you to be alive," John murmured. "Nothing I wouldn't give to wake up and have you here with me everyday."

"John," Sherlock whispered brokenly, and the word was at once enough and far too little. There was an immense sadness in his voice, a longing so deep that John could feel it as though it were a palpable thing.

"Right, we're never going to have sex because I can't keep myself together," John said, pressing a quick peck against Sherlock's lips.

"I'm not fairing much better," Sherlock whispered, stroking John's skin as John started to move again, straddling Sherlock's hips and stroking his fingers down his neck.

"You are me, my love," John reminded him as he pressed his lips to Sherlock's pulse point and marveled at the way he could feel his heart hammering away under his lips. "The fact that neither of us can keep it together is entirely my fault." John said before he sucked lightly at the other man’s throat.

Sherlock gasped and his entire body arched into John as he tilted his head back to give John more room.

John hummed against Sherlock’s skin and pressed kisses down Sherlock’s neck, then chest and belly. Sherlock’s fingers grasped at his hair, holding his head to his body and arching into every press of lips as though he were trying to feel every touch John gave him as intensely as possible. He allowed it, of course he did, kissing and sucking at spots that seemed particularly sensitive and reveling in the way Sherlock shuddered and moaned.

“You're perfect,” John murmured against Sherlock’s hip, “I love your voice.”

“I’m not even talking,” Sherlock said.

“No,” John affirmed, lapping at the crease between Sherlock’s thigh and groin. Sherlock whimpered. “But the noises you make,” John said with a hum, “They’re intoxicating. They’re my favorite sound in the world.”

“I-” Sherlock started before John placed a sloppy wet kiss to one of his balls and Sherlock gasped and interrupted his thought, his hips juddering up off of the bed toward John. “Oh,” he moaned as John cupped his sack with his tongue, rubbing along the bottom and cradling it. Then he opened his mouth further and drew one of Sherlock’s balls into his mouth, sucking at it and rolling his tongue along that sensitive flesh for long moments as Sherlock gasped and squirmed. “John,” he groaned, “That’s-” he gasped as John rolled his tongue along the underside a bit more firmly, “That’s amazing,” he whimpered.

John would have smirked, he did so love it when Sherlock complimented him, but his mouth was a little preoccupied so he settled for humming around Sherlock’s ball and sucking at it before he pulled back and moved to the other.

Sherlock cried out as John sucked at his left testicle, licking at the sensitive flesh before drawing it into his mouth. Sherlock spread his legs further, planting his feet on either side of John’s head and tilting his hips up.

Humming in pleasure, John let his hands slip under Sherlock’s bottom, angling his hips further so his mouth could slide down lower. His tongue pressed hard circles against Sherlock’s perineum as he moved lower and lower.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, his voice sounding desperate and like he couldn’t believe what was happening. It was the sound of someone who desperately wanted something but wasn’t sure it was okay for him to want it.

And oh, what John wouldn’t have given to have been able to hold Sherlock and cherish him this way in real life. What he wouldn't have given to show Sherlock everyday that it was an incredible, amazing thing for him to want John. What he wouldn’t have given to show Sherlock that he would give him anything he’d ever wanted. Before setting in to Sherlock’s hole John drew back slightly, “I love you,” he murmured.

“John,” Sherlock replied but it sounded just like the words ‘I love you.’

Without giving him time to say more, John leaned forward and brushed his tongue along Sherlock’s hole.

“Fuck,” Sherlock cried out and John marveled at his reaction given that he’d barely even touched the other man. John groaned in response and settled into his spot on the mattress more comfortably, lifting Sherlock’s hips a bit with his hands to give himself better access.

Sherlock took the hint and arched his back to tilt his hips. John flicked his tongue back and forth over Sherlock’s hole, tracing feather light touches to his skin that had Sherlock squirming, his hips pressing minutely as he tried to get John to press inside of him. But John wasn’t ready to give in yet, he flattened his tongue and let it press along Sherlock’s anus with wide, broad strokes. Every time John passed over his hole Sherlock let out a breathy sort of “hngh,” sound and John positively adored it. So he kept up his steady strokes, rubbing at Sherlock’s buttocks with his palms as he pressed against his hole with his tongue, enjoying the way Sherlock’s moans got increasingly higher and louder.

He could have kept doing the same thing for hours but then Sherlock started begging and if there was one thing John had very little defense against, it was the word ‘please’ coming out of Sherlock’s mouth. “John,” Sherlock whimpered and even the way he said his name sounded like begging. “Please,” he said through a moan as John rubbed over that flesh again. “Uhhn, oh,” he whined, “Please,” he begged. “Please,”

John groaned against Sherlock’s hole and gently, far too gently for Sherlock’s desires it seemed, pressed the tip of his tongue against Sherlock’s hole. He hadn’t even breached him when Sherlock started crying out and speaking again, “Yes!” he cried, “Oh, John,” his words paused as a moan escaped his throat again and his hips lifted off the bed. “Yes. Please, yes,” he moaned.

John wriggled the tip of his tongue against Sherlock’s hole not really trying to press into his hole but Sherlock’s body was so relaxed his tongue slipped just a bit inside of Sherlock’s hole regardless.

Sherlock cried out and his thighs clenched around John’s head sending another spike of arousal racing through John’s body.

“Sorry,” Sherlock panted, very obviously working to spread his legs again.

It was fine, of course it was, better than fine but it gave John a brilliant idea. He drew back and moved to sit up.

“No,” Sherlock cried in dismay, “Please don't stop.”

John hushed him, rubbing his hands along Sherlock’s thighs as he looked down at him; his chest was shining in sweat, his eyes were clenched shut, his lips bright red from the way he’d obviously been chewing on them, his arms were thrown above his head so his fingers could clench against the headboard. “You are beautiful,” John murmured again.

“John,” Sherlock whinged, tilting his head down to look at him with huge pleading eyes. “Please don't stop.”

“Spoiled,” John tutted and Sherlock pouted at him. He actually stuck out his bottom lip and pouted and John had never seen anything so adorable in his entire life. John laid his body across Sherlock’s then and kissed the pout off his lips, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and held him there.

Finally when he pulled back he grinned at his counterpart and grabbed his pillow from the top of the bed. “I wasn’t stopping,” John murmured, “Just assessing the situation,” he said with a wink before sliding back down the bed with the pillow in hand.

He lifted Sherlock's hips and worked the pillow under them. “Knees bent, feet flat on the bed, legs spread,” he murmured.

Sherlock groaned and obeyed, “Yes, Captain.”

John ignored him words in favor of enjoying the way Sherlock’s body was laid out before him. He hummed appreciatively, admiring Sherlock's body. “If only I were a painter,” John murmured, leaning forward and stroking the flat of his tongue over Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock laughed and groaned simultaneously, which was an oddly satisfying sound in John's mind. “What sort of pornographic things would you be painting?” Sherlock asked.

John leaned down and sucked the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. “Stick around in the morning and I’ll find something I love more than the image of you naked and spread for me. Maybe the way you look asleep in my bed,” John murmured with a kiss to Sherlock’s hip. “The sun might hit your skin just right and make your glow,” he said, “Like your skin in the moonlight. You’re beautiful.”

He laid himself back between Sherlock’s legs and pressed kisses to Sherlock’s thighs, “Maybe it would be over coffee and breakfast. Maybe it would be the way you look sleep tousled and in a bathrobe but completely content. Or maybe it would be you shaving over the sink. Maybe it would be the way you button your shirt and straighten yourself out in front of the mirror so you look perfect for the world. Maybe it would be the way you lie on the sofa with your hands folded under your chin while you think. Maybe it would be the way you play your violin, leaning into the music and the notes in ways I can scarcely understand.” John stroked his hands along Sherlock’s thighs, “Oh, my love, I have no shortage of things I would capture if I could.”

He pressed a kiss to the crease between Sherlock’s thigh and groin and then slid back to Sherlock’s hole, interrupting whatever Sherlock might have said in response to John’s visions of him.

“Oh,” he moaned instead, “John, fuck that’s amazing.”

John pressed a sloppy open mouthed kiss to his hole before pulling back, “Yes well we all have our skills sets.” He flicked his tongue a few times over Sherlock’s quivering flesh. “You can deduce a man you’ve only just met and I can dismantle people with my tongue.”

Sherlock let out another laugh-groan as John set back into his hole, finally beginning to open Sherlock with his tongue in earnest. He pressed firmly against Sherlock’s hole and let his tongue slip inside, both of them groaning at the feeling. Then he proceeded to lick and suck as Sherlock whimpered and cried out.

John slipped his hands up to Sherlock’s buttocks and spread his cheeks with his thumbs so he could thrust his tongue in further and Sherlock cried out, his hips pressing down on his tongue. “Oh, please!” Sherlock begged. “John, I need you inside of me,” he pleaded.

John would be lying if he said words like that didn’t go straight to his cock. He groaned against Sherlock’s hole before sealing his lips around that flesh and sucking at Sherlock’s rim.

“Uhhn,” Sherlock cried out inarticulately. “Deeper,” he whimpered. “Please John, deeper.”

John pulled back, gasping for air, “Take hold of your knees.”

Sherlock groaned and did as he was bid, grasping the back of his knees and drawing them toward his chest.

“That’s perfect,” John groaned before leaning back in and immediately pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s hole, using his thumbs to spread Sherlock’s body further still.

Sherlock cried out as John’s tongue delved back inside of his hole thrusting in and out and circling the rim to spread and relax his body as much as he could. He rolled his tongue against that flesh, twisting his head to give due attention to every part of Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock groaned, and his hips tilted and thrust minutely against John’s mouth, and John marveled at his core strength. He licked and licked, continuing to thrust inside of Sherlock’s body even when his jaw had begun to ache simply because he adored the noises Sherlock made and the way he seemed to fall apart under John’s mouth.

Then finally, when Sherlock was all but sobbing and begging for more John drew back.

Sherlock whimpered at the loss but his eyes opened and he looked up at John, “Please,” he begged.

“Shh,” John murmured, pressing kisses to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh as he reached for the lube, “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He covered his forefinger with lube and rubbed around Sherlock’s hole which was already loose and damp with saliva.

“Oh,” Sherlock cried out, pulling his legs further toward his chest in an obvious effort to give John more space. “John, please,” he whispered, “I need you inside of me.”

John groaned and gingerly pressed the tip of his finger inside of Sherlock’s body, stroking the ridges around that pucker of flesh. Sherlock cried out, his hole grasping at John’s digit.

“That’s fantastic,” he whispered. “Please, John.”

John leaned forward and kissed the inside of his shin, letting his finger slide out and then part of the way back into his body, rocking backward and forward smoothly in the first inch or so of Sherlock’s body.

“More,” Sherlock begged, his hips rocking in time with John’s hand.

John pressed his finger all the way inside of Sherlock’s hole and continued his paient, careful thrusting; he wasn’t about to be rushed. He moved slowed but steadily, pressing his forefinger inside of Sherlock and Sherlock arched and cried out over and over, his chest was flushed and covered in sweat, his eyes clenched shut and jaw slack.

John could have watched him like this all night, so enthralled was he with Sherlock’s responses. He stroked along Sherlock’s inner walls, and Sherlock let out a hoarse sounding cry, his eyes opening to look up at John and piercing him to the core once more, “Please,” he whispered. “John, I need more, please.”

John added a bit of lube to his middle finger and all Sherlock had needed to hear was the sound of the lube cap opening before he was begging for John to press his second finger in. “Please,” he whimpered. “Please, then you can stretch me around your fingers. Stretch me so wide and make room for your cock. It doesn’t have to be so slow,” he whispered, John leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s knee cap which was quivering from the effort of keeping his legs up. “I won’t break.”

“Legs down,” John murmured.

Sherlock groaned, “You aren’t listening to a word I say, are you?” He let his feet land flat on the bed once more, his newly unoccupied hands stroked up his abdomen and over his nipples, he brushed teasing fingertips over those sensitive nubs and gasped softly in response.

John opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by the way Sherlock's fingers were caressing his own body. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “I’m listening,” John murmured, “I always listen to you,” he said as he pressed his fingers slowly into Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock’s head jerked back at the contact and he gasped, John watched as Sherlock’s fingers pinched his own nipples and arched into the touch.

“Fuck,” John groaned, pressing his fingers inside of Sherlock’s hole and crooking them to unerringly hit his prostate.

“Ohh,” Sherlock whimpered, his hands stilling in favor of grinding down against John’s fingers. John held his fingers still and let Sherlock rock on his fingers for a few moments, pressing his body up and down and angling it just the right way so John was essentially rubbing his prostate constantly.

“You’re unbelievable,” John murmured as he leaned between Sherlock’s legs so he could press their lips together.

Sherlock’s fingers abandoned his body altogether in favor of curling in John’s hair again, holding their mouths together as Sherlock’s hips and John’s fingers set up a rhythm. John slowed Sherlock’s thrusts down with his hands, stroking the skin of his hip with his left hand as his right hand rocked in and out of Sherlock’s body with the utmost care.

The other man whimpered under his assault, “Please,” he whispered. “John please. More,” he arched into John’s touch and into his body, pressing their skin together.

“I just don’t want to rush this,” John whispered, and that was it, that was the truth of it. “I don’t want it to be over yet.”

Sherlock’s body stilled and his hands moved to cup John’s face, he kissed him again, slowly and sweetly, “You’re outstanding,” Sherlock whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” John replied continuing his measured thrusts into Sherlock’s body, spreading his fingers every so often just to watch the way Sherlock arched and gasped. He let his lips drop back down to Sherlock’s and swallowed down the noises he made and the gasps that escaped his mouth at John’s reverent touches.

His fingers clawed at John’s back as John once again brushed his fingers over Sherlock’s prostate, rubbing it gently just to hear the noises Sherlock made.

“You’re stunning,” John murmured.

“John,” Sherlock panted, “You're going to have to stop touching my prostate or I’m going to come before we’re ready. I can appreciate that you want to take this slow and torment me but I’ll never make it if you keep that up.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied, “If we could do this over and over every day I would absolutely come right now.” Sherlock leaned up to kiss John again, “But the future is a luxury we haven’t been afforded.”

John cleared his throat and breathed through his nose for a long moment to compose himself, “I know,” he whispered. “I probably would have already made you come simply because I want you to by now if we had a tomorrow.”

Sherlock stroked his fingers along John’s cheeks and neck but he didn’t say anything, what could he have said? John leaned in and kissed him even as he teased a third finger inside of Sherlock’s body. Pressing in and drawing out half a dozen times before he actually let his fingers sink inside of Sherlock more than a half inch.

Sherlock’s lips had gotten sloppy against John’s as he gasped and groaned against their kiss, his fingers clawed at John’s shoulders and his legs wrapped around John’s hips in an obvious effort to draw him closer. John spread his fingers inside of Sherlock’s hole and Sherlock’s head flew back as he cried out, one hand grasping John’s shoulder while the other threaded through John’s hair at the base of his neck. “John,” he whimpered, “Please.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s chin before drawing back as he continued thrust his fingers inside of Sherlock’s body. He sat up and knelt on the bed between Sherlock’s thighs, slicking up his cock with his unoccupied hand. Sherlock watched him with heavily lidded eyes, his legs falling even further apart in obvious invitation.

“Ready?” John asked as he released his grip on his own cock and drew his fingers from Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock nodded up at him with huge eyes,

“You’ve beautiful eyes, you know?” John asked as he slid his hands up and down Sherlock’s quivering thighs.

Sherlock rolled said body part, “You’re ridiculously sentimental.”

“I can’t help it,” John replied but his hands had already set to work and he felt relatively sure Sherlock hadn’t even heard him. He’d grasped Sherlock’s hips in his palms and lifted Sherlock’s body to settle his arse in his lap.

Sherlock whimpered and arched his back, his thighs clamped around John’s hips and his arms stretched above his head to press against the headboard as John's cock snuggled between his buttocks. “Yes,” he begged. “John please.”

“I’ve got you,” John murmured as he pressed forward minutely and drew Sherlock’s hips (and subsequently body) toward him simultaneously, the head of his cock breaching Sherlock’s body.

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes flying open the way they did when he’d thought of something particularly brilliant during a case. “Yes. John,” he whispered. His legs wrapped around John’s waist and his arms pressed against the headboard in an obvious attempt to control the speed at which John was entering his body.

But John had a firm grip on Sherlock’s hips and his core muscles were in fairly good shape so he maintained control over the pace, drawing back out of Sherlock’s body until only the tip of his cock remained in Sherlock’s hole even as Sherlock tried to close the gap.

“John, please.” Sherlock whimpered.

“Slow down, love,” John replied, rubbing Sherlock’s thighs with his palms, “Relax,” he breathed. “I want to make love to you all night long,” John whispered. “Over and over, I want to bring you to the very edge of orgasm and draw you back again so it doesn't happen too soon.”

“Well, you’re succeeding,” Sherlock said through a groan.

John started to press his cock into Sherlock's body once more, moving slowly and only half an inch at a time before drawing back out again. He kept this up until Sherlock was panting and crying out in earnest, then John buried his cock all the way inside of Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock’s fingers scrambled for purchase against the headboard as he wailed John’s name. John stayed buried deeply inside of Sherlock, breathing slowly and attempting to get his own arousal under control. Sherlock was so beautiful like this.

But as beautiful as he was, and as much as John loved to look at him, he wanted so desperately to hold the other man in his arms. John squirmed a little bit until he was sitting on the bed with Sherlock’s arse still in his lap. Then he slid his hands under Sherlock’s back, cupping his palms and drawing Sherlock up, “Sit up,” he murmured.

Sherlock groaned pathetically but helped John to get him into a sitting position with his legs wrapped around John’s waist and John's cock still buried in his arse. Sherlock groaned once he was sitting, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders and giving an experimental roll of his hips.

“That’s it,” John encouraged, rocking his own hips up into Sherlock’s body. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, supporting part of his weight and lifting as Sherlock rose up and sunk back down on his cock. He laved kisses along Sherlock’s neck and drew Sherlock in so their chests were pressed together.

Sherlock’s fingers moved so they were wrapped in John’s hair and he curved his spine so his lips could reach John’s as he clung to him and they rocked together. “John,” Sherlock breathed in wonder against his lips.

John stroked his fingers along Sherlock’s spine and leaned forward to brush his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock let out a soft sigh and rolled his hips, “You’re amazing,” Sherlock whispered. “This is amazing,” he sighed, kissing John’s lips. “I-” he broke off to gasp as John tilted his hips a bit and rocked back inside of him. “I never knew pleasure could feel like this,” Sherlock gasped. “Before you,” Sherlock whispered but then broke himself off to kiss John. John groaned into the kiss but Sherlock pulled back, “Before you, pleasure was sharp and vindictive. Pleasure was hot but it left me hollow and desolate.”

John stroked his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back, leaning in to press kisses along Sherlock’s neck and collarbone. It was ridiculous how much he loved this man.

Then Sherlock continued, “With you, though, pleasure is soft,” he whispered. Using his fingers he angled John's head back so he could kiss him again. “With you pleasure is warm; it’s a constant rumbling presence that remains with me. It surrounds me and lingers and in the dark moments I can close my eyes and there you are and there is pleasure again, soft, and warm, and soothing.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, unsure what he was meant to say. Unsure what sorts of things a ghost might witness which required comfort.

“You’re always with me, John Watson,” he murmured then his lips were on John’s again, pressing and pulling away, re-angling over and over as they moved together. They kept moving this way, rocking in the increments that this position allowed, each clinging to the other and letting hands run over flesh. John tried to remember exactly what Sherlock’s body felt like, the way his skin moved over his muscles, the way his muscle bunched and worked as he moved, the sharp contrast of bones against muscles and flesh.

Sherlock gasped and whimpered against John’s lips, rocking toward him and drawing his body closer over and over. “John,” he whimpered eventually, when they were both covered in sweat and both of them were quivering from how physically demanding it was to hold these positions. “I can’t-” he whimpered, tilting his head back as his fingers clenched against John’s shoulders. “More,” he whispered, “Please, I need more.”

John nodded, and supported Sherlock’s back as he rocked forward onto his knees and lowered Sherlock to the mattress. Sherlock let out a sigh as his muscles relaxed into the bed and John leaned over him to kiss him again, thrusting in and out of his body a few times just to taste Sherlock’s whimpers and gasps. Then he pulled out of Sherlock, much to Sherlock’s displeasure. “Hush,” John murmured, nudging Sherlock over onto his side, “Roll onto your side.”

Sherlock obeyed and John slid behind him, pressing his chest to Sherlock’s back and kissing the back of his neck. Sherlock reached back and grasped John’s hip in his fingers, drawing his body forward until Sherlock’s arse was cradled by John’s pelvis.

“Inside,” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded against his neck, reaching down to position himself at Sherlock’s hole and pressing inside. Sherlock cried out as John pressed in and his fingers scrambled for purchase on John's hip.

“Yes,” he whimpered, “John. Oh, yes.”

John slid his hand through the gap between Sherlock’s neck and wrapped his arm across his chest, his hand clasping over Sherlock’s ribs as he drew him even further into his body. His other hand moved to hold Sherlock’s hip steady. “I’ve got you,” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded, his hands clasping John’s arm around his chest, “I love you,” he groaned.

“I love you too,” John affirmed, “So much,” he murmured, tracing his lips over Sherlock’s shoulder as he sank completely into the other man’s body. “Ready?” he whispered, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready he was already dreading the moment this ended.

“Yes,” Sherlock pleaded, and John couldn’t refuse him, even if he'd wanted to stop, even if he were that frightened by what would happen after this last moment ended, he couldn’t resist Sherlock’s pleading. He would do what he had always done: exactly what Sherlock asked.

He drew his hips back and pressed in again, not moving much more quickly but certainly moving with more of an intent.

“Yes,” Sherlock moaned, his fingers digging into John’s hand as John rocked into him again. His back arched into John’s touch and his hips shuddered back toward John as John sank into him again and again. “Please,” Sherlock whimpered.

John kissed his shoulder and hips started to move a bit quicker of their own accord, pressing into Sherlock faster and deeper. “I love you,”John whispered, wrapping Sherlock’s chest with both his arms and holding the other man close.

Sherlock tilted his head down and kissed John’s arms even as he took a hold of John's hip and ground back against John’s cock. “I love you, too.”

They rocked together this way for a while, Sherlock whimpering and trying to reangle his hips against John. Then Sherlock was taking John’s hand in his and drawing it down his body, “Please, John,” he whispered. “Please touch me. Everything aches, I can’t-” he whispered before breaking off and shaking his head, “I don’t-” he pleaded. And it seemed words were lost.

“I’ve got you,” John assured, stroking his hand soothingly along Sherlock’s chest as the hand that Sherlock had guided to his cock wrapped around that hard flesh and stroked it gently.

Sherlock arched into John’s touch and cried out, a hoarse, pained sounding cry. It was too much, John realized, too much pressure, too much friction, too dry. Sherlock was undoubtedly sensitive and this would only serve to make it worse by John’s estimation.

“Hold on,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock's shoulders as he released his grip on the other man's cock and leaned over his torso to reach for the lube that was on the nightstand. He uncapped it and warmed a bit up between his fingers before returning his fist to Sherlock’s cock and giving him a solid stroke.

“Oh,” Sherlock cried out, his entire body clenching around John in pleasure. “Yes,” he begged. “Oh, John, don’t stop,” he gasped.

“I’ve got you,” John murmured, working his hand in a counter rhythm to his cock. Sherlock’s body began rocking in rhythm with his hands, pressing forward into John’s fist and rocking back on John's cock and John marveled at the beautiful man in his arms. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “That’s it, beautiful.”

“It’s so good,” Sherlock whimpered. “John, I can’t-” he started before gasping as John twisted his hand around the head of Sherlock’s cock.

“It’s alright,” John whispered. “I love you. Let go,” he murmured.

“John,” Sherlock cried out, his hips jerking to press his cock through John’s fist as his hole clenched around him. “I-” he broke off, “Oh, right there,” he whimpered, angling his hips a touch differently.

John thrust in again and pulled out before repeating the gesture, aiming for the same spot that left Sherlock shuddering and babbling incoherently.

Sherlock keened and pressed back against John, grinding down on John’s cock, “Please,” he cried. “Yes, John. Oh, I’m going to-” he cut himself off as he cried out.

John stroked his cock and picked up the pace of his thrusts, “Come for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cried out, all but sobbing as his hole clenched down around John’s member and his body spasmed. John stroked him through his orgasm, whispering soft words in Sherlock’s ear; it was nonsense, just simple little words about how much he loved him, how much he adored him, how perfect he was. But Sherlock whimpered with every word. Finally, John released Sherlock’s limp member and stroked his hands along Sherlock’s sides listening to the way the other man's breathing calmed.

Then after a long moment, Sherlock pulled out of John’s arms, disconnecting the two of them. He rolled over and pressed his lips to John’s softly in sweet pecks over and over as he pressed John over onto his back and straddled his hips. He laid on John’s chest for long moments, kissing him and stroking soft hands along his face and neck and through his hair. When Sherlock pulled back he sat up and John stroked his hands along Sherlock’s thighs, staring up at the man he loved more than anything. “I love you,” John murmured.

Sherlock smiled at him, a sweet, easy smile that made John’s heart flutter. “I love you, too. Now,” Sherlock said, reaching behind himself to stroke John’s cock, John gasped and arched into his touch. “I think we have something to take care of.”

John groaned as Sherlock positioned John's cock at his hole sank down slowly, “Careful,” John murmured. “You don’t have to do this if you’re too sensitive.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock murmured, rolling his hips and beginning to move on John’s cock.

“How can you even move?” John said through a groan as his fingers clenched Sherlock’s hips; steadying him and supporting his weight as he rose up and sank down again on John's cock.

Sherlock winked at him, “Because I love you more than I want to sleep.”

John laughed, his hips rocking up into Sherlock’s body as Sherlock slid down. Sherlock leaned forward a bit and ran his palms along John’s chest and abdomen, tracing the bumps and dips on his body like John’s skin was Braille.

“You’re stunning,” Sherlock murmured, “You look so beautiful.”

“Not like you," John replied, passing his fingers over Sherlock's shoulders before sliding up his neck and into his curls once again.

"Eye of the beholder," Sherlock mumbled.

John hummed and flipped the two of them, rolling Sherlock onto his back and squaring himself between Sherlock’s thighs. He grasped Sherlock’s hips and kissed him as he rocked in and out of Sherlock’s body a few times. Sherlock groaned and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders for a long moment.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips, “Mmm, yes,” he groaned.

“You are ridiculously sexy,” John murmured, kissing Sherlock’s cheeks and brushing their noses together. Then John sat up a bit and raised Sherlock’s thighs, “Put your legs over my shoulders,” John whispered.

With a groan Sherlock obeyed, pressing his palms against the bed for support.

“Beautiful,” John murmured, bending Sherlock further in half as his fingers stroked along Sherlock’s thighs. Then he pressed back into Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock cried out and his head snapped back, his back arched and he let out a strangled sounding sob that sounded suspiciously like John’s name.

“Too sensitive?” John asked softly, stroking fingers along Sherlock's thighs in what he hoped was a soothingly gesture.

Sherlock shook his head, “I don’t think so,” he whispered. “It’s like fire and ice in my veins, it’s so intense.”

John rocked out a little bit, then smoothed back in again, “Too intense?” he questioned.

Sherlock shook his head and John repeated the gesture, Sherlock cried out again and bit his lip, his flaccid cock giving a twitch.

“You’re incredible,” John murmured.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his chest flushed and his eyes bright when he finally opened them to look at the other man. “Please,” he whispered.

John bent Sherlock’s body even further so his knees were touching his chest as he leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock groaned and his hands abandoned their positions on the mattress in favor of clasping the back of John’s skull as they kissed. John gasped into the kiss, his hips rocking into Sherlock’s body all the while.

“John?” Sherlock gasped, his fingers scrabbling through John’s hair.

“Hmm?” John prompted, mostly distracted by the way Sherlock felt wrapped around him.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock groaned.

John laughed, “I am, you prick.” He thrust a bit harder to emphasize his point.

Sherlock groaned and his back arched, “Harder,” he moaned, his arms releasing John’s neck in favor of bracing himself against the headboard and driving his body down harder on John’s cock as John thrust inside.

John groaned and bit his lip, returning to his mostly upright position so he could really drive his cock into Sherlock’s body. He grasped Sherlock’s thighs in his hands, “You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” John asked, turning his head and kissing the inside of Sherlock’s knee where it was resting over his shoulder.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes skimming over John’s face.

“You’re fantastic and I love you,” John said.

“Love you, too,” Sherlock murmured. “Now fuck me.”

John shook his head in exasperation and started rocking into Sherlock’s body in earnest. He pounded into the other man, his eyes rolling back into his head at how good the friction felt against his prick. He groaned and grasped Sherlock’s hips harder in his fingers drawing Sherlock’s body into his as he pressed forward into Sherlock’s hole.

“Yes,” Sherlock cried out, his fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets. “Oh,” his breath caught audibly as John thrust home once again. “Uhhn, John,” the other man panted. “Yes, yes,” he moaned.

John bit his lip and forced his eyes open to look at Sherlock laid out beneath him, he was breath-taking. His chest and face were flushed, his bottom lip was captured between his teeth, and John could visibly see the muscles in his abdomen at work as he rocked himself on John’s cock. His nipples were lovely, erect nubs and his cock was not entirely uninterested in the proceedings.

John reached around Sherlock’s legs, tilting forward just a bit, and toyed with Sherlock’s nipples as his hips snapped into the other man’s body.

Sherlock gasped and his eyes flew open to look at John once more as John rubbed his thumbs over his nipples. John smirked at him and rolled both nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, reveling in Sherlock’s helpless whimpers and gasps. “Beautiful,” John murmured for what had to be the hundredth time. But he was, and John knew he was never going to have the chance to say these words to him again. He firmly pushed his mind away from that thought as he tweaked Sherlock’s nipples again.

“Oh,” Sherlock whimpered, “Oh,” the word slipped out again as Sherlock’s hips tilted up and he pressed harder against John. Sherlock’s hole clenched and unclenched around John’s cock and his body shuddered as John toyed with his nipples. “John,” Sherlock cried out, his fingers moving from the bed to his hair where he tugged roughly at his curls, his mouth dropping open, his back arching into John’s touch. “Yes,” he pleaded. “Oh, don’t stop.”

John groaned, his own cock twitching inside of Sherlock’s body at the desperation in Sherlock’s voice and at the way his body couldn’t seem to decide which sensation it wanted to lean into the most. “I won’t,” John whispered. One of his hands leaving Sherlock’s nipple to brush up his neck and cup his cheek.

Sherlock leaned into the touch, one of his own hands abandoning his curls to cup John’s hand in his. He turned his face and pressed a kiss into John’s palm and the tenderness in the gesture made John’s hips stutter.

He let his thumb trace Sherlock’s cheek once more before his hand slid back down Sherlock’s neck and chest, the slid down Sherlock’s abdomen until it reached his semi-hard cock. He trailed two fingers featherlight over Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock cried out, “Oh,” he gasped, his fingers returned to his hair again to tug at it and John could feel his toes curling against his back. “I-” he whimpered as John stroked the backs of two fingers along Sherlock’s cock once again. “Uhhn,” he whimpered before clasping his lip harder between his teeth. It only took one thrust and he freed his lip again, “John,” he cried.

And John couldn’t help but wonder if it was too much, if Sherlock was too sensitive, if this was that place between pleasure and pain and Sherlock just wasn’t sure how to walk in it.

But then, before John could ask him, Sherlock’s eyes opened and he turned his head to look at John, his jaw dropping at the thrust of John cock in his body, “Oh,” he moaned again. “John,” he pleaded, “I’m going to come again,” he whimpered.

John’s heart stuttered in his chest and his cock throbbed inside of Sherlock’s body. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock could possibly be about to orgasm again, he was equally unsure what Sherlock needed him to do to make it happen; too much sensation and he’d be pushed back away from the edge, too little and he’d remain in that weird limbo between orgasming and not where everything is hot and achy and tight.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock begged.

John continued rocking inside of Sherlock’s body, relatively sure he was hitting the other man’s prostate as he rocked in and out of his hole if the noises he was making were anything to go by. He took hold of Sherlock’s cock then, not stroking and not grasping him, he just held his cock in his palm and rubbed his thumb under the head, circling the frenulum lightly.

Sherlock gasped and his body arched like he’d been touched with a live wire. John’s name fell from his lips over and over, like Sherlock was chanting, like he was praying. “Yes. John, yes,” he cried out.

His hole had clenched down around John’s cock so tightly that John was afraid it was hurting Sherlock to have John continue pounding into him. But the begging and the sound of John's name on his lips sounded nothing like pain.

“Sherlock,” John gasped, suddenly realizing just how close to the edge he was himself. And it was too late to draw himself back from the edge, there was nothing he could do to slow it down or to stop it; he should have been paying closer attention to his own body. “Sherlock, I need you to come for me, sweetheart,” he murmured as his hips started to lose their rhythm and his balls clenched up to his body. “Please,” John begged.

And apparently, Sherlock was no better at ignoring that word coming out of John’s mouth than John was at ignoring it coming out of Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s body clenched down around John and Sherlock let out a hoarse cry as his cock pulsed in John’s fist and a weak stream of ejacualte evacuated his body.

John groaned, his hips thrusting once more before he stilled and emptied himself inside of Sherlock’s body. John tried to think about rubbing Sherlock’s cock a bit as he came but he didn’t keep up consistently the way he should have, his body was too overwhelmed by stimulus. His body started to slump before he ran into resistance. It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock’s legs were still over his shoulders and had halted his movement. He sat up and helped Sherlock drop them to the bed before he collapsed forward over Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and his thighs around John's hips. John scooped his arms under Sherlock's shoulders and held him close to himself. He buried his nose in Sherlock's shoulder. “Don't leave me yet,” John whispered.

Sherlock's arms clenched tighter in response but he didn't say anything. The two of them laid there together for a long moment, just breathing in the scent of the other, the scent of the two of them combined. Maybe if neither of them said anything they could just stay here.

Finally Sherlock spoke, his voice tight and it made John's own throat ache, “Promise,” he whispered before clearing his throat and gasping. “I shouldn't ask, I know I shouldn't,” he murmured. “But please promise me,” he whispered, “Promise me you won't forget me.”

John drew back then, not very far, but enough that he could search the other man's eyes. John brought his hand to Sherlock's face, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “There is no world, no future in which I could ever forget you. I will never stop loving you.”

Sherlock searched his eyes for a long moment and then gave a quick nod. He leaned up and pressed his lips to John’s, his hands framed John’s cheeks as he held him close and John’s heart ached at the tenderness, at the sadness, at the loss he was experiencing all over again.

When he drew back he stroked Sherlock’s curls back from his face once more, “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” he whispered.

“You did,” Sherlock replied, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. John wiped them away with his fingertips. “In every way that mattered you did. You reminded me what it was to care about more than a puzzle, you gave me a heart again.”

John kissed him again because he couldn’t bear not to, he was so afraid of what was going to happen when he stopped kissing Sherlock, stopped holding Sherlock. He was afraid that each kiss might be his last.

“If I move,” John murmured, thinking that he didn’t want to keep squishing the other man, and that they could be more comfortable, “Are you going to disappear?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said softly.

“Good,” John murmured, drawing back and pulling out of Sherlock’s body. John winced and Sherlock made a soft, displeased sounding grunt. “Sorry,” John murmured, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s cheeks and nose. He repositioned his body so he was still lying mostly on Sherlock, his left leg between Sherlock’s and his arm thrown across Sherlock’s torso, his head pillowed on Sherlock’s chest. He listened to the steady thrum of Sherlock’s heartbeat, it sounded so solid, so strong; it made his own heart ache.

Sherlock’s hands stroked idly along John’s back, “I said I wasn’t leaving yet,” Sherlock murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice, “You don’t have to pin me down.”

John turned his head, resting his chin on Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock craned his neck to look down at him. "I just want to be close to you," he defended.

"Sure," Sherlock said with a smirk but his fingers stroked through John's hair so his words had no bite. His fingers kept moving through John’s hair brushing it back off his forehead before stroking along his eyebrow. “I will miss you,” Sherlock whispered.

John tilted his head down and pressed a kiss to the center of Sherlock’s chest, “I’ll miss you, too, my love.”

Sherlock cupped his face in his palm for a moment before drawing their lips together, John squirmed up toward the top of the bed a bit to kiss the other man at a better angle. They kissed for a long time, sliding lips along lips and fingers along bodies. When Sherlock drew back he wrapped John in his arms and John returned the gesture.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock whispered.

Reflexively John’s arms tightened around the other man, his throat closed up and he couldn’t even breathe let alone get the words out; he shook his head.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and relaxed back into the bed; his body relaxing made John settle a bit, too.

“Stay with me until I fall asleep?” John whispered.

“Alright,” Sherlock murmured, holding John a bit tighter in his arms, his fingers continuing to drift over John’s shoulders and back, lulling him into a sense of calm and security.

John’s eyes had drifted shut and he felt himself starting to dose off; he jerked awake again sitting up and looking down at Sherlock.

Sherlock watched him with a fond sort of exasperation, “What do you need?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head and drew his knees up to his chest, resting his cheek on his knee so he could look at the other man. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock sat up too and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek, “I love you,” he murmured. “It’s alright,” he said softly. He reached over and grabbed a bottle of water off the nightstand and handed it to John, “Here,” he said, placing the bottle in John’s hand.

John took it from him and took a long draw of the water, watching Sherlock the entire time. Sherlock took it back from him when he finished and stroked his fingers over John’s cheek. “Lie down,” Sherlock murmured.

John scooched until he could lie back on the bed and Sherlock situated himself in John’s arms. Sherlock stroked his fingers along John’s side and pressed kisses to his chest every few minutes. “It’s alright,” Sherlock said softly. “It’s okay to let go.”

John fingers curled in Sherlock’s hair and he held him close, his heart feeling heavy.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock soothed again, pressing a kiss over John’s heart. “You are so loved,” Sherlock whispered.

“I love you, too,” John murmured, his voice coming out slurred. Suddenly it seemed he couldn’t find the energy to keep his eyes open, his mind had started to float away, drifting toward unconsciousness once more. He was almost lost to the world, almost in the deep nothingness of sleep, when the words came to mind, fighting their way out of his throat. “D’you remember when we had a fight and I spent the night at Sarah's?” John asked.

“The night before the bomb blew up part of our flat?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded, “I was so frightened when I saw it on the news that morning,” John said. “I couldn’t breathe the whole way home I was so scared for you.”

Sherlock stroked his fingers soothingly along John’s chest but he said nothing.

“I knew I loved you then. I should have told you,” John said, his fingers clenching and unclenching in Sherlock’s curls again.

“I loved you then, too,” Sherlock whispered.

And with those last words, with the reminder of the love the two of them might have shared, John drifted off into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

_Sherlock_

_12 Months Later_

He was nervous.

What a ridiculous, stupid thing to be. This was John, his John, what did the time matter? He knew John had a girlfriend, one he’d been dating for nine months now, which was a long stretch for him, he must be fairly serious about her, but Sherlock wasn’t worried. (At least his logical mind said he shouldn't be.) The words John had whispered to him the last time they’d been together echoed constantly in his mind. _I_ _love you. I have never loved anyone the way I love you and I never will._

The words had given him hope on the darkest of days, and there had been many extremely trying days without John.

He walked into the restaurant, his head held high, he was going to meet his best friend and the love of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... To be continued.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to preface this chapter by saying that I am not convinced that it is entirely necessary. I did force a dear friend to read it first to see if she thought it would make the story better or to see if it was superfluous. She said it was an enhancement. I don't like to rewrite things that happened in episodes; you have eyes and ears and thoughts about them yourself and probably don't really want mine. So this chapter is a very brief (just under 4000 words) overview of the time that starts at the beginning of season 3 and ends after TFP. It just highlights some moments that stand out in my mind from those episodes. I *always* appreciate feedback and constructive criticism (also nice comments <3) but I would really like to know if this chapter seems necessary. 
> 
> I will do my utmost to post this chapter and the one that follows it tonight, because this one isn't my favorite. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Not Dead_

John was nervous. He'd never proposed to anyone before and hoped to never do it again, he felt mildly nauseous and he wasn’t really certain he was making the right decision. But he loved Mary, she was lovely and she was everything that Sherlock wasn’t. When he was with her his life felt calm and stable, she had helped him from a very dark place and he loved her for it. He loved how soft she was, how gentle and how sharp she could be at the same time, he loved how clever and witty she could be, how steady.

He’d longed for a fresh start and she had been exactly that, now it was just time to take the next step together in their lives.

He exhaled shakily and was just starting to practice his proposal under his breath when a man, a waiter, walked up and started babbling about wine. To be honest, John didn't hear a word the other man said. His mind had been completely overcome by the way the man smelled.

Now, John had gotten rid of a lot of things things from his memory, there was a certain amount of “deleting” as Sherlock would have called it that had to happen when one let go of someone they loved. But the way Sherlock smelled had never been something that John could remember consciously on his own, regardless, so there’d been no way to erase that bit.

It was unsettling, the man smelled exactly like Sherlock; he felt the pit of his stomach completely drop out and he had to fight a wave of deja vu so strong that it made him nauseous. As he breathed through it, he wondered if perhaps this was merely his nervous subconscious trying to talk him out of what he was about to do, but he pointedly ignored the nerves and attempted to do the same with the waiter, “Surprise me,” he muttered before looking up and seeing Mary.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, where he stumbled through at least a part of a proposal, everything would blur together later and he’d have no idea what he had said or hadn’t when everything came to a grinding halt.

“You’re him,” Mary said, looking between the two of them.

John’s heart had frozen in his chest as he stared at the man whom he had only seen in his dreams for the past 2 years. He’d imagined this moment a thousand different times in thousands of ways; but never like this. He’d never imagined that Sherlock would turn up when he was getting engaged, with a stupid drawn on, fake mustache and stupid French accent, he'd never imagined Sherlock would take this so lightly.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock had said, staring right back at John but responding to Mary.

“Oh, my God,” Mary had murmured.

“Not quite,” Sherlock had quipped back and John could have murdered him right then and there. How could he possibly be joking at a moment like this? How could he possibly think this was the moment to be funny? But then Sherlock, oh his Sherlock, had decided to make one more joke at the expense of the mustache that everyone had told John they had loved. And John had lost it.

The next thing he knew he was being dragged off of Sherlock and they were being escorted out.

The rest of the evening had passed in a similar state of disbelief and aggravation. Molly Hooper, Mycroft, and his homeless network. The sheer number of people who had known (and had lied to his face when he had asked them) had almost given John a coronary.

But he’d known even as he climbed into the cab and waited for Mary to follow him, that he’d forgiven Sherlock.

\------------------------------- 

  
_Stag Night_

Everything had evened out, they’d forgiven each other as they always would. John never talked about the time Sherlock spent away, never mentioned all of the nights he’d had vivid dreams of Sherlock touching him, kissing him, holding him, loving him. How was one meant to bring that up in conversation anyway?

But sometimes he would catch Sherlock looking at him, and he would wonder if maybe, just maybe, it had been the real Sherlock who’d come back to him.

Tonight, however, was no time for thinking about that. Tonight was about getting drunk and thinking about his fiancé. (Although his brain steadfastly reminded him the point of a stag night was to do things you wouldn't get to do once you were married.)

Even still, having sex with your best friend whom you’d once been in love with (John refused to admit that he still was) was a bit not good. And so he pointedly ignored the urges the alcohol brought bubbling to the surface to reach over and brush the too long fringe out of Sherlock’s eyes. He resisted the urge to lean in and kiss the alcohol off Sherlock’s plush, wet lips. He clenched his hands into fists at his side to stop himself from running his fingers along the flush covering Sherlock’s cheekbones.

Sherlock was such a light weight. How the other man had as low of an alcohol tolerance when had once been a cocaine addict was completely beyond John. But he watched in amusement and in anticipation as Sherlock drank more and more and his inhibitions slipped lower and lower. Maybe Sherlock would make the first move. Maybe Sherlock would be the one to slip and tell John he’d been real. Maybe.

And when they'd gone home (yes, it still felt like home to John, more than flat he and Mary shared did even though he refused to admit that out loud as well) Sherlock had leaned in and put his hands on John’s knee to catch his balance, John was certain he’d seen a spark of recognition there. The two of them had looked at one another and John couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock was remembering the times he’d touched John like this as he prepared to suck his cock. “I don’t mind,” John had murmured. And then they were leaning in toward one another, almost subconsciously as though neither of them could help it.

But then the girl who thought she'd dated a bloody ghost had come up the stairs and either ruined everything or saved everything. John really wasn’t clear on which it was (and as ashamed as he might be to admit it, the next morning he wasn’t any clearer.)

All John had been able to think about the entire time they spent at the ghost’s flat with Sherlock was crawling around on the floor was pulling down those trousers and rimming Sherlock until he was sobbing. He stared at the other man’s arse and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have gladly done it right there, on his knees, licking and slurping obscenely, he would have made Sherlock cry with pleasure. Then he would have stuffed him full of his cock and fucked him until Sherlock had come twice.

But then Sherlock vomited and all of John's alochol inhibited mind could think was that he wanted to get him a cool cloth for his forehead, a glass of water along with a paracetamol, and send him to bed. He wanted to crawl into bed with him and simply hold him. He wanted to wake up with Sherlock. He’d longed for it many, many times, but at those times he’d wanted to wake up with him because it would have meant that Sherlock was alive. Now he wanted to wake up with him purely because he wanted Sherlock to be the first thing he saw in the morning. He wanted to wake up with him to have an awkward giggle and a sweet shared kiss. Oh, alcohol was a terrible thing, all John wanted was what he should never have.

They’d been tossed into a cell and John had gotten Sherlock laid out in the bench so he could stop feeling nauseous. He let himself sit on the edge of the bed and stroke through Sherlock's sweat damp curls while Sherlock slept. He smiled in spite of himself as tenderness and affection blossomed in his chest.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but it was long enough that the buzz of alcohol started to wear out of his system and he started to feel drowsy himself. He was tempted, so very tempted, to lie down next to the other man, to take him in his arms and hold him while they slept, just this once. But he didn’t, he couldn't, knowing that if he allowed himself this now he would never want it to end.

So he plunked himself down on the cold hard floor and his army training took over. He fell asleep and as he dreamed it was of miles of pale, smooth skin; red, swollen lips; and eyes deep enough to drown in.

\-----------------------------

_Best Man's Speech_

If John had ever wondered if Sherlock Holmes was in love with him, it was in this moment.  Never had anyone said such kind, well thought out things about him.  It was a beautiful speech and as John had looked around at the faces present of the people who knew Sherlock best, he couldn't help but wonder if they thought the same thing.  Molly's eyes had been filled with such pity, and John hated to admit it, but it as a look he had seen on her face hundreds of times when Sherlock had been cruel to her; it was the way a person looked when the soul that was the center of their world didn't feel even remotely the same.  He wondered if she was feeling that way for herself or if she felt that way for Sherlock, either way it didn't bode well.

Then there was Greg, dear lord, the man sat there and looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow the entire time. He just kept drinking, and shaking his head and John could practically hear the words he was thinking because he'd said them dozens of times with that same expression.   _Poor bastard._   Usually it was directed at a person who'd been brutally murdered.  John hated to think what that metaphor might mean in this situation.

Mrs. Hudson sat there and cried through the entire thing and John didn't have to wonder what she thought of all of this; sh'd thought that he and Sherlock had been together for years.

Even Mary looked frankly stunned by the depth of heart that had poured out in the speech.  

And then Sherlock had panicked, "John," he'd said his voice small and sounding frightened, "What's wrong?  What happened?  Why are you all doing that?" He turned and looked at John, "John?" he asked, sounding genuinely afraid that he'd done something wrong, that he'd somehow ruined this day that John had told him was the most important day of his life.  "Did I do it wrong?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.

John's heart had felt ready to burst, "No, you didn't," he murmured, standing up and drawing the other man into his arms.  "Come here."  And it had seemed to John that the guests had clapped almost as loudly as they had when the priest had said, 'You may now kiss the bride.'

 

\-----------------------------

  
_Mary’s Death_

There are no words to describe the death of a spouse. No words to explain the depth of loss, no words explain the fear and the sense of betrayal at their death. She was supposed to be his forever. She was supposed to be the face he saw in the morning and the face he saw when they went to bed at night. And no, their relationship was not perfect, far, far from perfect in fact, but he had loved her. He'd chased her across countries and continents because he'd lost a person he'd loved that way once before and he'd be damned if he was going to again.

  
If he’d only known what was going to happen to Mary, if he’d been able to see the future or had had even the slightest suspicion that they wouldn’t have years together to work out their problems he would never have taken that number from the stupid girl on the bus. But as it stood he had no idea what was about to happen to them, he’d had no idea her life would end so quickly and he'd been so tired of being lied to, so tired of being left in the dark about things from the people he loved. It was one person after another who built up walls and refused to let him in and John had been damned sick of it.

He'd lashed out. And it was just a text; just a few words here and there, words that meant nothing to him but it was something that was his. Something that Sherlock didn't know about, something that Mary didn't know about. They had their secrets and now he had one too.

It was petty and it was stupid, and he hadn't meant a word of it. He loved his wife, and if there'd been anyone he was going to break his wedding vows for, it certainly wasn't some girl he'd met on public transit. It ate John up inside. He'd wondered as he stared at Mary how she'd been able to keep so much from him, how she'd been able to keep her entire life, her entire past a secret. She'd put on such a front when they'd met, she'd seemed so safe and so sweet. He'd wondered how she'd been able to keep from telling him the truth, especially when something so small, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, completely tore him apart.

He was going to tell her, he had to. He had to come clean and hope that she could forgive him, he'd been about to tell her, the words were right there on the very tip of his tongue when Sherlock had text them. He let her go, of course he did, it was her life, this was her problem and she'd wanted so badly to fix it for herself, for their family. How he'd wished he'd not let her go, how he'd wished he'd been there sooner.

When he’d arrived, he didn't even know what had happened or how. He heard the gunshot when he was still in the corridor and his heart had started racing as his legs started to move. He'd burst in and Mary was on the floor covered in blood and his own heart had stopped. _Not again. Please God, no. Not again._ He'd never wanted to feel this pain again, never wanted to feel the complete desolation of grief and loss.

He'd gone to her, of course he had, and he'd told her she was going to be alright because he was a Doctor, he'd been in the military, he'd seen so many people die and that's what you did. You lied. You told them everything was going to be alright, you told them they were going to be fine. But no one who is dying is ever that stupid, Mary especially wasn't that stupid. She'd used her last breath to tell him she'd loved him, and his heart had shattered in his chest; his entire body ached as he knelt there and watched the life leave her eyes.

He'd have given anything to let her live, anything. He would have traded places with her in a heartbeat. But it didn't work that way and there was nothing he could do to bring her back; no matter how tightly he held her body, or how his mind might plead through the tears she was gone.

And then Sherlock had tried to touch him and John had done the only thing he could. He lashed out, "Don't you dare," and he felt a sick sense of satisfaction that someone else was hurting like he was. "You made a vow," John had hissed accusingly and his heart had twisted in his chest because it was true Sherlock had promised everything was going to be alright, he'd promised to take care of her, of them, but here Mary was, dead on the ground and John's heart along with her.

How could he do this on his own? How could he raise a child alone?

But no, he was done with trying to do things with other people, done having partners. He was tired of being lied to, over and over again. He was done. Done with the lies, done with broken promises, done with Sherlock, done with the crime fighting and mystery solving, done putting the people he loved in danger because he was never fast enough, never clever enough, and people always died. Rosie wouldn't be next.

He'd left that night determined to never see Sherlock Holmes again.

\----------------------------- 

  
_Mourning. Again._

Mourning the second time around was easier in some ways. At least in this he had someone to blame, at least in this there had been some reason, even if it was a bogus one, for the death of the person he loved. But he was so angry and so hurt. He was mad at the world, mad at Mary, mad at himself, mad at Sherlock. Nothing made sense and he couldn’t find a way out of this. And he knew he should try, for Rosie if for no other reason, but he just couldn’t bring himself to.

And he didn’t want to see Sherlock, he didn’t want the other man’s sympathy and apologies. But he was pissed that Sherlock hadn’t at least tried. He was supposed to be his best friend, he was supposed to be the one of the people who loved him most in this world and love wasn’t supposed to just sit back and wait.

He needn’t have worried, the other man showed up in quite a state and John had taken one look at him and known he was taking Mary’s death hard. For a fragile moment he felt sorry for the other man who was struggling so, but then he’d seen the track marks. So it wasn’t grief (or maybe it was) it was the drugs that were responsible for his haggard appearance. He looked a right mess and John couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to, he wasn’t ready to forgive the other man yet, but he agreed to help him.

Damn this case, damn this man. It was awful, the whole thing was terrible and Sherlock was a disaster. He’d been hitting the drugs so ridiculously hard and he was twitching, searching constantly for his next fix. John hated it. This wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, this wasn’t the man he loved. But then again, the man he loved wouldn’t have just stood by and let Mary get shot; perhaps that man didn’t actually exist.

They’d jumped through some hoops and John couldn't help the bit of disbelief that had crept into his mind as Sherlock talked. He couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the stress and the drugs had just been too much for the other man. And John hadn’t been willing or able to save Sherlock Holmes at this point. There was nothing he could do, he couldn’t even save himself.

But then Sherlock had pulled a knife on an innocent man and John had lost it; Sherlock was putting someone’s life at risk again. He snapped the knife out of Sherlock’s hand easily enough and he could have left it there but he didn’t. He’d slammed the other man bodily against the wall and all of the things he’d been feeling, repressing, rushed to the surface. Once he’d started, his body didn’t stop, couldn’t stop and he’d beaten the other man to a bloody pulp before his brain clicked back online and two men had drawn him back from Sherlock’s body.

And then Sherlock had said, “No, it’s alright. Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled." He looked up at John from under his eyelashes, "I killed his wife.”

He should have felt bad, staring down at the mangled, bloodied face of his best friend. He should have felt like this had been impossibly hard on Sherlock, too. He should have been able to see that Sherlock carried the responsibility for this squarely on his shoulders and he was buckling under its weight. But he hadn’t seen any of those things, he hadn’t felt any of those things. “Yes you did,” John spat at him, his fists clenched and even as he stood there, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t have given to hit the other man again, to put a face to what was causing him such pain, such heartache and to crush it.

But he hadn’t gone any further and Sherlock had been admitted into the hospital. He and Greg talked and John had decided he was done. He was really done. Sally Donovan had warned him about this years ago and John felt sick that he’d gone along with the other man for all of these years, that he’d believed in Sherlock Holmes.

“We should have seen this coming,” Greg said.

“We did,” John replied steadily. “He shot Charles Magnussen in the head last year but then it was fun.” And later he would feel badly about that comment; it hadn't been fun, he'd been protecting John and Mary, he'd been ready to go into exile and to go to his own death because of that.  John had done the same for him their very first case together; he'd hardly known Sherlock but he'd shot a man for him. That hadn't been fun either, but it had been necessary, jut like Magnussen.

He hadn't felt any of that at the time, just an aching emptiness that he had no one. He’d brought his cane to the other man and he left it there for him before he was summoned back to Baker Street. He didn’t care anymore, couldn’t care anymore. Mycroft stood inside of the living room nattering on about helping his brother, rattling off words about finding the cause for this and shutting it down. And John didn’t care. He was so tired.

But then, there was the video and John’s entire world collapsed once again.

All of this was for him, he realized with a sick sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock dragged his own name through the mud for him, dragged himself to the very depths of hell for him, put himself in the hands of a murderer for him. Everything the other man had done was for him, to give John a purpose and to give him someone to save.

There were many things that Mary said in that video that stood out to John, many things that as she had said them he’d been amazed by the way she’d felt about him. But the words that really stuck to the inside of his soul were, “The man we both love.” She’d said it simply and straight forward as though she were stating a fact that Sherlock would accept without question and it made John all but choke.

He had to save him and not only because it was what Mary wanted. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t.

\------------------------------  
  
 _Sherlock’s Birthday_

He sat there in the flat staring at the other man, staring at the damage he had wrought upon him. He felt terrible. He was still aching over Mary’s death, still completely emotionally raw and bloodied himself. You made a vow he’d accused Sherlock when Mary died, but he’d made a vow too, and he’d been the one to not do his best to keep it. He’d been projecting, he knew that now, but it didn’t make it any easier. He didn’t know what to say to the other man, he didn’t have words, he couldn’t apologize, he couldn’t say his heart was broken. He just didn’t have words. So he cleared his throat awkwardly and asked the other man if he’d be alright without a babysitter, Molly would be there soon.

“Christ, John. Stay. Talk,” his apparition had said. It had been ironic, really, Mary showing up after she had died had been the only thing that had absolutely wiped out the possibility that it had been the real Sherlock who’d come back to him. He’s finally been able to lay those doubts to rest now that it didn’t matter anymore.

He couldn’t stay. He didn’t have words that he could say and everything ached. He didn’t know how to be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson anymore and he wondered if he ever would know how to again.

And then Sherlock had said, “I thought you were just staying because you enjoyed my company.” He’d given him a closed lip smile at that as though he was telling a joke, but it was weak and he hadn’t been, and they both knew it.

The facade John had worn crumbled completely. There was nothing for it, he’d hurt all of the people he’d loved, he’d lost them and he deserved to have lost Sherlock too. _I cheated on you,_ he’d told his apparition and Sherlock. The words spilled out then, word after word that he hadn’t been able to say and the guilt and the grief was a tactile thing.

Sherlock hadn’t seen it as a broken vow, he hadn’t condemned John the way John had condemned him, hadn’t rubbed it in his face and made him feel worse. No, his Sherlock had looked at him and said, “They were only texts.”

And John had felt his resolve crumbling further, as he let the lack of condemnation and forgiveness wash through his system. The relief was sharp and painful, honestly it felt very little like relief.

“It’s not a pleasant thought but I have the terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human,” Sherlock had murmured.

“Even you?” John had asked, his voice tight and hard, because Sherlock didn’t seem it, he was too good, too faithful to John, too brilliant to be merely human.

But then Sherlock said, “No, even you,” and John had broken. It had been too close to the words Mary had said the day she’d died. Did the people he loved truly see him like that? He was such a mess, such an emotional, terrible human being. He had such flaws, they were so stark and bright, they defined who he was in his own mind. How could the people he loved most look past those flaws?

Then Sherlock had pulled him into his arms and John had shattered to a million pieces only held together by the arms wrapped around him. “It’s alright,” Sherlock had whispered.

“It’s not alright,” John had choked out because it wasn’t and he wondered vaguely if anything would ever feel alright again. If this pain would ever stop tainting his heart and his relationships.

“No,” Sherlock had agreed, pulling John in closer and resting his cheek on John's head, “But it is what it is.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Six Months Later_

After the hurricane that was Eurus, John had decided that he and Rosie were going to move into 221B Baker Street. He hadn’t worked out the logistics but he knew that it was the only place that felt like home and Sherlock, even if he didn’t feel the same way in anything other than the wild imaginings of John’s dreams, was the only person John could imagine spending the rest of his life with. So he moved in, planning on working out logistics later.

Later as it turned out, would not be long. John found sharing a room with a toddler completely intolerable and so he and Sherlock agreed to take turns sleeping in the downstairs bedroom and on the sofa. John still wasn't sure how he'd let Sherlock convince him this was the best course of action but they found themselves on a constant rotation from couch to bed and back again.

Round and round they went, passing each other every night on their way in to get pajamas, or books, or any other mundane excuse they could come up with to see the other in the bed they too slept in. And John found himself wondering constantly if this was something Sherlock would be amenable to. He couldn’t help but watch the way Sherlock moved and the way Sherlock seemed to linger in the doorway of the room just to talk, just to say something that could have easily waited until tomorrow or never have been mentioned at all.

And sometimes John thought about just lifting up the edge of the covers and inviting Sherlock into the bed. It was plenty big enough for the two of them even if they were sharing it platonically but he could never seem to work up the courage. So he’d sit in bed with a book in his lap when it was his night to sleep in the room and he’d stare at Sherlock and hope that the man who read people the way John read books would read John and find him worthy of his affections.

But it didn’t happen until a night not too far in the distance when John and Sherlock had solved a challenging case for Lestrade and Molly had volunteered to watch Rosie for the night so they could have a rest. Of course, being the completely irresponsible idiots that they were, they didn’t use their night of freedom from their toddler as an excuse to go to bed early, they used it as an excuse to go out drinking.

Now, past experience should have told them that drinking was a challenging activity for them, but rather, John found that he was quite looking forward to it. As soon as Sherlock had made the suggestion, John had jumped on it.

They’d walked out of the Yard and Sherlock had turned to look at John in that peculiar way of his and he’d said, “So, do you want to go out and get a dr-”

And John had interrupted him, “Yes,” he’d said fervently and without hesitation.

Sherlock had grinned at him, that sort of grin that always gave John goosebumps because it was the fond sort of smile that said we are on the same page. It was the sort of smile that told him they were two halves of a whole and that Sherlock loved it just as much as he did.

So they’d made their way to a pub not far from their house (hoping the walk home would be simpler that way) and they’d gone in and ordered a couple of rounds just to get started.

John watched as Sherlock pounded back three shots in rapid succession and John’s pulse had kicked up another notch at the thought of the barriers the alcohol was going to break down. So he followed Sherlock’s lead and drank his own shots before staring across the table at Sherlock.

Sherlock was sitting quietly, staring at John with an unfathomable expression on his face. “What are you thinking about?” John asked.

“You,” Sherlock said simply and without guile.

John could help but grin at him, the alcohol already making him heady and light. “What about me?”

Sherlock shook his head and looked down at his lap and John wondered what thoughts the other man was hiding. When he looked back up he said, “Just the miracle that you are here with me at all after all we have been through the past few years.”

John took a swallow of his beer, thinking the only miraculous part was that Sherlock hadn’t told him to go to hell after what John had put him through.

“I don’t deserve the life that Mary saved,” Sherlock whispered, looking down at his lap where his hands were clasped once more. 

“What?” John asked, he was surprised, he’d thought they were past all of this.

“I feel,” Sherlock swallowed and glanced around the bar as though he were searching for something, anything that could draw his attention away from this conversation, from his thoughts, “I feel guilty every time I start feeling happy.” He looked at John, then, “Every time I am with you and feel happy that you are with me, every time I think about the fact that I have you with me everyday, that I get to see your daughter grow up, and I-” Sherlock broke off, his voice tight and he shook his head and closed his eyes, shuttering the window into his soul.

“Sherlock,” John said frankly at a loss for words. He reached across the table and covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, “Look at me,” John said softly. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Sherlock said, tugging his hand away from John’s.

To hell with this, John wasn’t going to sit over here and do nothing. He moved around the table and nudged Sherlock over on the bench until he was scooched in beside the other man. He pressed his side against Sherlock’s and was quiet; he may not have words (he never seemed to when he needed them) but Sherlock didn’t have to feel like he was alone.

“I don’t know how to repay the debt I owe her,” Sherlock whispered and John saw tears shining on his eyelashes.

“You love the life she died for you to have,” John said simply.

“What?” Sherlock asked

“She wanted this for you, Sherlock. She wanted us here, together, always. She wanted you to be happy. She wanted you to have me and me to have you,” he said softly. “If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have jumped in front of that bullet for you. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have asked you to go through hell to save me.”

“I don’t-” Sherlock started.

“I know,” John said firmly. “I know it’s what she would have wanted.” John took Sherlock’s hand in his once more and Sherlock allowed it, turning his left hand over to slot into John’s right. “The way you repay the debt is by appreciating what she’s given you. So every time you feel glad to have me, every time you feel amazed by the way Rosie is growing and the person she is becoming, you appreciate it all the more because you know how fleeting time is and you know what was sacrificed for you to have it.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes,” John answered. “And it’s exactly what I believe. It’s what I tell myself when I’m out solving cases, when I’m feeling at my wits end with Rosie when she’s colicky, when I’m at my wits end with one of your strops. I remind myself that it’s short, it’s fleeting, and that my Mary gave up her life for this. Suddenly I don’t feel guilty, I don’t feel irritated, I just feel grateful. It healed me better than anything else. Just knowing she wanted us to be together.”

“Together?” Sherlock asked, looking up at John then looking young and afraid and vulnerable.

John swallowed, he almost did it, his heart thudded wildly in his chest, and his tongue felt like it had swollen up to fill his entire mouth. He almost told Sherlock the truth but then he couldn’t get the words to come out. “Yeah,” he murmured, “Just the two of us, out solving crimes, saving the world, annoying the hell out of one another.”

Sherlock chuckled and took a drag of his beer, John reached across the table and pulled his own drink over to himself, deciding that his side of the table looked boring and he wasn’t going back over there.

They sat next to one another and chatted then, talking about inane things that popped into their minds. Crimes that they’d solved, mysteries that they couldn't solve like where things (socks, mostly) disappeared to in their flat, John’s work at the clinic, the research Sherlock and Molly had started doing together, and finally they were both yawning and leaning on one another as they continued to babble nonsense because neither of them wanted to go home and end the night.

Eventually, John drifted off the sleep and awoke with a start when his head hit Sherlock’s shoulder. He looked over at the other man sheepishly, but Sherlock was just smiling at him, affection plain as day. “Let’s go home,” Sherlock said softly. “You’re exhausted, I’m exhausted, this was lovely but I’m ready for bed.”

They left the bar, the bartender waved them off when they tried to pay, Sherlock had done something sometime for him; John couldn’t remember what. And they staggered home, bumping into one another and giggling as they walked and swayed together. It probably took twice as long as it normally did for the two of them to get home but John didn’t mind because Sherlock was with him and Sherlock didn’t really seem to mind either. When they got home the two of them stood in the living room and chatted a little more, about equally mundane things because neither could bear to let the other go. Finally when they were both yawning and practically falling asleep on their feet, Sherlock said, “This is ridiculous. Go to bed. We’ll both be here in the morning.”

“You go to bed,” John retorted. “It’s your night to sleep in the room and mine to sleep out here.”

Sherlock argued with him, of course he did because he was Sherlock, and finally John just snapped, “To hell with it. The bed is big enough for the both of us. Let’s just both sleep in there.” He’d thought it a dozen times, of course, but the alcohol let it slip right out.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked, looking a bit insecure.

“Yes,” John replied, boldly taking Sherlock’s hand and dragging him into the bedroom.

When they got in they both flopped down on the bed; John on the right, Sherlock on the left as though they’d done it a thousand times. They didn’t bother changing out of their clothes, they just pulled the blankets up to cover themselves. “I don't know why we haven’t done this before,” John murmured, his eyes closed heavily. “This makes the most sense.”

“Your straight sensibilities, mostly, I suspect,” Sherlock said.

John snorted, and it may have been the alcohol more than anything talking, or it may have been the fact that the two of them had already had such open, honest conversations tonight but John said, “I’m not straight.”

“Well you certainly go to great lengths to tell everyone you aren’t gay,” Sherlock retorted.

If John’s eyes had been open he would have rolled them, “Well I’m not gay either. I do really love women, I just happen to be quite fond of men, too. I don’t know why it’s anybody’s business and I resent the implication that I’m dating someone who has literally no interest in me.” He started talking again through a yawn, “And did you really want people to think I was only chasing you around because I had a crush on you like Molly Hooper? Besides, why should it matter to you? You aren’t interested. You’re happily married to your work.” He waited, hoping Sherlock would take the bait and tell him that he was wrong. That he was interested.

“Was that the reason you’ve come along on all of our adventures?” Sherlock asked instead.

“Don’t be stupid,” John grumbled, still steadfastly refusing to open his eyes, he was tired, damn it. “There is no one on earth that I hold more dear than you except maybe Rosie,” as a father, he probably shouldn’t have said maybe; it should have just been ‘except Rosie,’ but his alcohol addled mind didn’t care about propriety. “And it’s not because I think you have a fantastic arse, it’s because you are my best friend and I think you are brilliant, and you have this childlike sweetness when you let down your walls, you’re loyal and dedicated, you know who you are and you stand for what you believe in. You’re fantastic and you make me feel like I matter.”

“So the real question,” Sherlock said and John thought for a moment that he was going to be open and honest like John had just been, “Is do you think I have a fantastic arse as well?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” John chastised, his eyes flying open, “Is that really what you took from that you complete wanker?” He shoved at Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock laughed, but suddenly his eyes widened in a way that John couldn’t help but find comical and his arms started to flail. His fingers clenched in the fabric of John’s shirt and then he fell off the bed with a hard thud and dragged John down with him.

John landed on top of Sherlock and Sherlock let out an “Oompf,” sound before he groaned.

“Oh,” John murmured, “Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shove you out of bed. Or fall on you.”

“This is why we don’t share the bed,” Sherlock groaned.

“Oh I’m sure,” John said sarcastically, looking down at Sherlock’s upturned face. “You don’t come to sleep in here because you just knew that I would shove you out of the bed.”

Sherlock chuckled and then John was chuckling, too, his head dropped down onto the crook of Sherlock’s neck and the two of them giggled. And they just laid there in a heap laughing at one another. Finally John regained some of his composure, he sat up a bit and looked down at his counterpart. He was sure later on, that it had been the alcohol that allowed him to stay this close to Sherlock without making him feel like he was impositioning the other man. “Do you want to know the truth?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking up at John with wide, trusting eyes that he couldn’t fathom how he had earned.

“I do think you have a fantastic arse.”

Sherlock laughed and it was that simple, John decided he had to taste Sherlock’s smile, he wanted to swallow down his laugh, so he let his lips meet Sherlock’s. The laughter promptly died off Sherlock’s lips but that was alright because his hands came up and he gripped John’s back tightly, as though he were afraid that John was going to stop. But John had no intention of stopping, not now, not ever. He explored Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, running it over the space that felt new and yet achingly familiar.

Finally when both of them couldn’t breathe, they drew apart but not very far. John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s and opened his eyes to stare at the man he was still laying on top of.

Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, his fingers still clenched tightly in the fabric of John’s jumper, “John,” he breathed, soft as a prayer, and it sounded like coming home. It sounded like rain on a hot summer day when nothing could break the heat. It sounded like relief. And John thought Sherlock could say his name that way for the rest of his life and it would never grow old.

“Come on,” John murmured, starting to pull back from Sherlock intending to simply get the two of them into bed.

“No, please,” Sherlock whispered, his voice broken and his fingers scrabbling for purchase in John’s jumper.

“Shh,” John soothed, “It’s alright, I’m not going anywhere.” John stroked his hand over Sherlock’s curls, “Let’s just get back in bed,” John replied. “I’ll hold you and kiss you, I’ll do anything you want. I just want to stop crushing you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes then and looked up at John, eyes wide and John hardly dared believe it but they looked hopeful.

“Come on,” John said again, tugging Sherlock up off the floor. It was quite possibly the most uncoordinated gesture John had ever seen Sherlock be a part of, but neither of them could find it in themselves to care. They were entirely too concerned with getting into the bed with as much bodily contact as possible. John pulled Sherlock back into the bed, dragging him so that Sherlock was lying half on him and half off.

Sherlock stared at John and John stared back at him. They just laid there, staring at one another for a long time until Sherlock finally said, “Tell me that when we wake up in the morning you won’t say you only kissed me because we were drunk.”

John laughed, “I promise that I won’t say the only reason I kissed you was because we were drunk. And I don’t think anyone would believe me even if I did.”

Sherlock hummed and John watched as Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to his lips, “Can I kiss you again?”

John smiled, then, glad to know that Sherlock wanted this, too. “Yes.”

Sherlock leaned down to kiss him and it was John’s turn to let his hands roam down Sherlock’s neck and shoulders as he kissed him. He let his hands stroke down Sherlock’s spine feeling the muscle and flesh beneath, muscle and bones that made his brain stutter out, _he’s alive. He’s here and he’s alive._ John traced his fingers along Sherlock’s neck, letting his pointer and middle finger rest over where Sherlock’s pulse was hammering away. He grinned into the kiss and opened his mouth further, inviting Sherlock in to explore.

Finally John decided it was time for a change so he flipped Sherlock onto his back and crawled on top of him. Sherlock gasped and looked up at him, his eyes wide and dark as he drew John down onto his body. Their mouths melded together once more as they relished this time together, time spent holding one another and exploring one another in the most gentle way possible. There was no pressure for anything more, just the desire to keep the other close with their lips pressed together.

The two of them had no frame of reference for how long they stayed like that, kissing and rolling over one another to switch positions and explore the different ways their mouths could fit together. They laid on their sides, slotted together from hip to chest, their legs tangled as they kissed. They took turns moving to control the kiss and moving to run their hands along clothed flesh. But eventually they broke off again when John was straddling Sherlock’s hips and cupping his jaw in his palms while he kissed him.

Sherlock kept his hands clenching John’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place and John wondered if Sherlock had wanted this as long as he had.

“What do you want from me?” John asked softly as he brushed his nose along Sherlock’s.

“Don’t ask me that,” Sherlock replied.

John looked down at him, trying to understand what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock laid there, his eyes closed and John realized he was storing things away in his mind palace and couldn’t help but feel equal parts flattered and saddened at the thought that Sherlock believed he had to store this away as though it weren’t going to happen again. “Why not?”

“Because I want too much. I want to devour you, I want to take you apart bit by bit. I want to know all of the things that make you tick. I want to know what makes you moan, what makes you shudder, what makes you scream, what makes you weep. I want to break you apart and be the glue that puts you back together again.” Sherlock opened his eyes then and looked up at John, “I want to hold you captive, I want to love you and never let you leave.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” John murmured, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“Be careful, John,” Sherlock warned, his voice soft but serious, “Going down this rabbit hole is dangerous.”

“I’ve been stuck in the rabbit hole for years,” John said with a chuckle. “All I want is you.”

“Let me touch you,” Sherlock murmured softly. “Let me explore your body. Let me learn your curves and edges. Let me learn the way you taste and the way you smell. Let me lock you away to have with me always. I’ve wanted nothing so badly as I want this.”

John ignored the implications that Sherlock thought there was a time when they wouldn’t be together and remained straddling Sherlock’s hips but sat up so he could tug his jumper off over his head. They remained like that for a moment and Sherlock ran his fingers feather light over John’s skin, starting unsurprisingly with the scar on his shoulder and moving on from there, touching and mapping.

John watched him, his skin tingling under the soft touches that left him aching for more. “Sherlock,” John whispered softly.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s face, “Yes?”

“Nothing,” John said, shaking his head. “I just,” John bit his lip, reminding himself that this was real; this wasn’t just the warped imaginings of his grief stricken mind, the three words on the tip of his tongue could spell disaster. “It’s nothing.”

But Sherlock’s eyes softened further as though he knew what John were going to say, what he was thinking. He said nothing, but he rolled them again, flipping him onto his back and staring down at John. “You’re so compact,” he murmured, “So solid, so sturdy. It’s just who you are in everything. Solid and there, the truest thing I know.”

“You’re a romantic at heart,” John said softly.

Sherlock shook his head and turned from John, “I’m not. I’m thoroughly unpleasant and undeserving of your affections. I’ve rarely made the right choices in my life, John.”

“Sherlock,” John murmured, unsure where this was coming from, what had brought this on. He’d seen this look on Sherlock’s face many, many times and he always wondered where Sherlock went inside of his own mind, tunneling and burying himself in his own thoughts. He didn’t know what he was meant to say, only that he wanted to say something to bring Sherlock back to him. “Come back to me,” he murmured softly.

Sherlock looked at him and smiled faintly, “I can never leave you, I’m afraid,” he murmured, taking John’s hand in his and cupping his own cheek with it before turning his face in to press a kiss to John’s palm. “I've never been able to bring myself to, even when I should have. I’m far too selfish for all of that.”

John was about to say something, what he was going to say, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he wanted to say something, bring Sherlock some semblance of comfort for whatever it was that he was going through, but Sherlock leaned in and covered John’s lips with his own, effectively silencing anything John might have said. And the novelty of having Sherlock kissing him effectively silenced John’s mind as well. John closed his eyes and let himself drift off in the heady, warm feelings Sherlock managed to produce.

Then Sherlock’s lips were slicking down John’s neck, licking and laving, nibbling softly without hurting him. It was lovely and sweet and John felt a simmering of arousal in the pit of his stomach but it wasn’t the consuming type. It was a slow and steady build, it was fueled by affection and devotion rather than lust and passion and John wondered at it. Never had anyone touched him with the care and reverence Sherlock was now. Never had he wanted to bare his soul to another being the way he was ready and willing to bear it to Sherlock now.

“Sherlock,” he whispered again and Sherlock looked up at him from where his lips were pressed against John’s hip bone while his fingers were sliding along the other, undoubtedly pressing against the bone and comparing the two.

Sherlock sat up slightly and looked down at John from where he was, “I didn’t think this was ever going to happen,” he murmured.

John smiled up at him, “I’ve been hoping it would for years.”

“Tell me what you want,” Sherlock said, stroking his hands along John’s abdomen as though he couldn’t get enough of touching him, which was a lovely thing, as far as John was concerned because he couldn’t get enough of being touched by Sherlock.

But Sherlock’s words brought to mind a thought John had so long ago when his imagination was creating Sherlock, at the time he’d thought he’d known the Sherlock with him couldn’t have been real because he was asking John what he wanted and not just deducing him. The treacherous idea formed in the back of his mind once more that maybe, just maybe, it had been his Sherlock all along. “You,” John murmured, hoping he was remembering what he’d said then correctly. “Only you,” he whispered, reaching up his hands and cupping Sherlock’s face. “Always you.”

He watched in fascination as goose bumps broke out across Sherlock’s skin, the delicate hairs on his arm stood up straight. “Be careful making statements like that,” Sherlock warned again, his voice soft.

John couldn’t imagine what Sherlock was so worried about, he hoped they would continue doing this over and over and over as long as the two of them lived. He hoped they would never spend another day apart. He hoped they would fall asleep together and wake up together, he hoped they would fight with each other and alongside one another, he hoped Sherlock’s would be the last face he saw at night and the first face he saw in the morning.

But he couldn’t find the way to say those words before Sherlock was reaching over into the nightstand and digging around in the drawer. Eventually he pulled out a tube of lube and then his lips were back on John’s again. John sighed and relaxed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and letting his mind drift off in bliss. Sherlock pulled back a few moments later and his fingers set to work at his buttons, unbuttoning his shirt with practiced ease and pulling it off his shoulders.

John’s hands reached up to stroke along Sherlock’s skin without his permission and Sherlock smiled at him as his fingers drifted to John’s trousers that he’d already pressed low on his hips. Sherlock toyed with the button for a long moment and stared at John, “Can I undress you?”

“Yes,” John replied breathily, “Pretty much any time you want.”

Sherlock laughed and he slid the zip down on John’s trousers. The two of them twisted and squirmed to get themselves naked, John was distracted from the task multiple times by the sight of Sherlock’s long, lean body moving around him.

When they’d finally managed it, Sherlock laid his body out across John’s letting their skin touch each other. John arched into the other man, his arms wrapping around him as he dragged their lips together, “You feel incredible.”

Sherlock hummed and then his fingers were trailing down John’s abdomen and wrapping around his cock. He gave it a few gentle strokes and he moaned against John’s shoulder and if that tiny moan just from touching John’s cock wasn’t enough to ratchet John’s arousal up another level, he wasn’t sure what was.

Sherlock released his cock but before he could feel too upset Sherlock’s lips were on his and he heard the pop of the lube cap being removed. He wrapped his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and let his tongue delve once more into Sherlock’s mouth.

Then he felt gentle fingers pressing between his buttocks so a lubed forefinger could rub at his hole. John broke from the kiss then, gasping out Sherlock’s name as his fingers dug into Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock stilled his finger and looked down at John, “Yes?”

John nodded fervently, “Yes.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed his cheek and John found the gesture oddly endearing, it was sweet and gentle, full of affection, and John’s chest ached at the tenderness Sherlock was displaying.

“I’m not that sweet,” Sherlock murmured, his finger continuing to rub around John’s hole.

John chuckled, “I never said you were.”

“No, but you were thinking it.”

John shook his head, he should stop doubting Sherlock’s ability to amaze him, “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“Eh,” Sherlock hummed with a shrug and a thoughtful quirk of the lips as though it were something he was contemplating but had yet to weigh the pros and the cons of.

John gave his shoulder a playful shove and Sherlock laughed, “You are going to fuck me,” John commanded. “You don’t have an option.”

“Is that so, Captain?” Sherlock asked and he finally, finally, slipped a finger inside of John’s hole.

John gasped and exhaled on a groan. It had been a ridiculously long time since he’d had anything up there and it was outstanding. “Yes, it is most definitely so. Pretend it’s an order, if you have to.”

“I don’t think I have to,” Sherlock rumbled, leaning in to kiss John as his finger began moving inside of John’s body. Sherlock drew back after a moment, “Fuck you’re tight.”

John laughed, “What did you expect? I was married to a woman, and while she was quite adventurous in the bedroom she wasn’t quite that adventurous.”

Sherlock hummed and he pressed another finger into John’s body. John let out an exhale somewhere between a whine and a hiss, the stretch was exquisite and the spark in the pit of his belly flared into a forest fire racing through his veins.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, his fingers stilling.

John groaned, “As long as you don’t stop.” He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or just his sentiment but he couldn’t help but remember what it had been like the first time the fantom of his best friend had fucked him. It was different than this in many ways but there was something about it that felt the same; something about Sherlock maybe. But Sherlock chose that moment to press his fingers against John’s prostate and John lost all semblance of that line of thought. John cried out and writhed as Sherlock rubbed that bundle of nerves mercilessly for a long moment.

“That's what you get for thinking about something other than me during sex with me,” Sherlock murmured as he nipped sharply at the skin on John’s neck.

John’s fingernails dug into the flesh of Sherlock’s shoulders as he arched into the other man who’d begun scissoring his fingers and stretching John’s hole in earnest. “I wasn’t thinking about something other than you, you prick. But you can keep up the prostate massage if you’re wanting me to come before you get inside of me,” he murmured sarcastically.

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled, “What were you thinking about?”

John groaned and dropped his head back onto the pillow in exasperation, “Does it matter? Please just fuck me, I could never have imagined that it would have been this hard to convince you.”

Sherlock shook his head, “It’s not hard to convince me, but genius needs an audience, John,” he said with a smirk.

John laughed and then decided to take matters into his own hands. He flipped the two of them so Sherlock was lying on his back and John was straddling his hips. Sherlock let out a disgruntled grunt and started to protest. John covered his lips with a finger and grabbed the lube with the other hand, squeezing it awkwardly to cover three fingers and then he pressed them into his own hole.

“I wanted to do that,” Sherlock complained.

“I haven’t got the patience tonight,” John said, groaning as he worked his hole open further, his cock twitching and leaking precome onto Sherlock’s belly. “I promise I will let you do it another time.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked softly, looking up at John like he could hardly believe him.

“Yes,” John said in exasperation. “Everyday if you’d like.”

“Everyday,” Sherlock said skeptically.

“Well maybe not everyday,” John said reasonably. “Some days I’m going to want to give you a blow job, or a hand job, or I’m going to want to rim you, or fuck you. But we can do this all the time, too, I’m really not a hard sell on sex.”

“With me?” Sherlock asked, his nose wrinkling up and his brow furrowing the way it did when he couldn’t quite puzzle out how something had happened.

John groaned, “I don’t understand what is so difficult about this concept. Yes, with you, Sherlock. As long as you want, whenever you want, however you want because all I want is you. In every conceivable way, I want you.”

Sherlock blinked at him, staring uncomprehendingly the way he had when John had said he was his best friend.

John let him process, assuming that Sherlock was giving him some lovely soliloquy inside of his head, and continued to work at his hole, he was starting to feel loose and open, it would only be another minute or two. He let his hips roll a little as he pressed his fingers into his body as far as he could reach. Not quite far enough to brush his prostate but that was probably just as well.

Finally he pulled his fingers out and leaned forward to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock blinked and his eyes refocused on John. John grinned at him, “You didn’t say any of that out loud,” he murmured before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s again.

Sherlock sighed into the kiss and John lingered a moment longer before pulling back and looking down at the other man. “Do we need to use condoms?” John asked. “Sorry, I know it’s not the best pillow talk but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’m clean but if you’d feel better until we’re tested I’m good with using them.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I’m clean, too, there's never been anyone but you.”

“Good,” John said with a smile before reaching back and taking Sherlock’s cock in his fist. He gave it a few teasing strokes before he spread some lube on his member, watching as Sherlock gasped and squirmed under him “You’re stunning,” John murmured. “I could watch you like this for days.”

Sherlock shook his head, “You don’t know what beauty is.”

John smiled softly at him, this man was incredible; such a contradiction. Those three words fluttered up into John’s throat again and he had to swallow them down. Now was not the time. “Ready?” he asked instead.

Sherlock nodded and John grasped his cock once more in his palm and held it steady while he pressed it to his hole. He started to slide down, slowly, torturously slowly, mostly because he was afraid of splitting himself in half if he went any faster.

Sherlock’s hands wrapped around his hips, slowing him, steadying him, “It’s alright,” Sherlock murmured. “Nice and slow. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“See what I mean about you being sweet?” John teased.

“John, wanting my partner to avoid anal fissures and all other sorts of nasty repercussions for careless sex is hardly sweetness. Common courtesy, more like.”

“Well, common courtesy isn’t all that common for you,” John countered with a wink.

Sherlock snorted, “I hate you.”

“No you don't,” John said as he sank the rest of the way down on Sherlock’s cock. He sat still for a minute, letting his body adjust to the sensation of being filled and stretched. John rested his hands on Sherlock’s chest and exhaled shakily. Sherlock stroked his hands along John’s thighs and John knew he was trying to be patient even as his hips were twitching.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked breathily.

“You feel fantastic,” John murmured.

Sherlock seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and John let himself lean down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, “How do you feel?” John asked as he started to slowly rock his hips.

“I don't have the words,” Sherlock murmured, wrapping his fingers through John’s hair to hold him close. “This is more than I’d ever imagined possible.”

John kissed him again because he didn’t have words either, at least not words that his brain could fully form. There were three but he was determined not to say them. He drew back and rubbed his hands over Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, pausing for a long moment to brush his thumbs over the other man’s nipples.

John had been right about that in his mind, Sherlock’s nipples were rather sensitive, he arched into John’s touch and his hips jerked up off the bed at the contact. “John,” he moaned, “That feels so good.”

John’s heart fluttered at the sound of Sherlock’s voice and his own cock throbbed, “Good,” John replied before he rose up and sank down on Sherlock’s rock hard cock again.

“Oh,” Sherlock whimpered, his hand grasping John’s hips as John moved.

John started to rock up and down on the other man’s cock, loving the way that Sherlock moaned and whimpered and arched into him. “You’re stunning,” John murmured.

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John once again, “That feels amazing,” he murmured before he bit down on his bottom lip. His hands grasped John’s hips harder and he drew John up and down on his cock a little faster, angling him backwards even as he brought his own knees up and planted his feet on the bed. “Lean back,” Sherlock murmured.

John did exactly that and groaned at the angle, working his body up and down. “Fuck, that’s perfect,” John groaned, letting his head tilt back and shuddering.

“Look at you,” Sherlock murmured, his hands traced up John’s thighs and over his hip bones, brushing along the crease between his groin and thighs.

John’s cock twitched at Sherlock’s hands’ proximity. “Touch me,” John whispered and even he could hear the desperation in his voice.

“Not yet,” Sherlock replied and John groaned, his hips stuttering on Sherlock’s cock.

His thighs burned and he was breathing heavily, partially from the strain and partially from how ridiculously turned on he was.

Sherlock seemed to notice, of course he did, he was Sherlock Holmes and he rolled the two of them then, momentarily disconnecting the two of them as he flipped John onto his back and settled between his thighs. “How flexible are you?” Sherlock murmured, running his hands along the back of his thighs.

“Not that flexible,” John confessed with a laugh.

“Pity,” Sherlock murmured, grinning lasciviously at him. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured. “Lift,” he prompted as he started to shove a pillow under John’s hips.

John obeyed, staring up at the other man, “You’re so beautiful.”

Sherlock looked up at John then, and cocked his head, “They always say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and I never believed that was true. It’s a construct of what societal norms and childhood impressions but I can’t fathom what’s made you feel this way. I’m not even your type,” he murmured.

“I don’t have a type,” John replied, affronted. He’d prided himself on his ability to see all of his partners as the beautiful creations they were.

Sherlock snorted, drawing John's right thigh up and hooking it over his shoulder, “Yes you do. Look at Mary and Major Sholto, compare them to Sarah, even Jeanette and whatever the names were of the ones before them,” Sherlock said and John was ashamed to admit that he couldn’t remember their names either. “They’re all rather more substantial than I am but somehow simpler. I’m a compilation of all sorts of strange features that don’t really go together. Even Mycroft would be more your type than I am.”

John laughed, “Mycroft is not my type. Greg on the other hand,” John said with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock laughed, “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” John assured, “I just can’t understand how you think you’re not my type. You’re everyone’s type. Look at you, curls and cheekbones, perfect skin and eyes deep enough to drown in. Besides, who doesn’t want to be looked at and be really seen?”

“Literally everyone we know,” Sherlock said.

“That’s not true,” John murmured, “Molly, Irene Adler, James Moriarty-”

“Moriarty?” Sherlock scoffed, “John you're ridiculous. Has there ever been anyone who has shown the slightest bit of interest in me that you decided didn’t want to get into my bed?”

John hummed, “Nope.” He shrugged, “I can’t imagine knowing anyone who didn’t want to get you into their bed. But the jokes on them, you’re all mine and I’m not sharing.”

“They couldn’t have hoped to share me either way,” Sherlock whispered but he chose that moment to press his cock inside of John, stretching John just a little further and John groaned.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, planting his foot on the bed and angling his hips to try to stretch his body to accommodate this position better.

Sherlock thrust in and out a few times and John’s back arched, pressing down against Sherlock’s body.  The stretch was almost too much and were it not for the fact that Sherlock brushed along his prostate from this angle John would have told him as much.

“Relax,” Sherlock whispered, removing John’s thigh from over his shoulder, “You promised to tell me if it hurt,” he accused.

“It doesn’t hurt, exactly,” John said, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s hips instead. “And I didn’t respond one way or another to that prompt.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stretched his body out over John’s, “You’re an idiot. The angle is better the other way for prostate stimulation but this is good too. I can kiss you this way.” He did just that and rocked into John’s body for a long moment, his fingers clenching around John’s shoulders and holding him close.

Sherlock pulled back after a moment and John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“I want you to always tell me what you like,” Sherlock whispered, rolling his hips and clenching his fingers into John’s shoulder.

“I like,” John started but broke off to moan at a well placed thrust. “I like you,” he finished.

“You’re a sap,” Sherlock accused.

“Yes,” John confirmed. “I like being able to touch you, I like being able to kiss you, I like being able to see you.” He arched his back up and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. “I like being here with you, I’ve waited forever for this,” he whispered.

“Me too,” Sherlock confessed breathily.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, “Tell me what you like.”

“I,” Sherlock paused and bit his lip.

“It’s hard isn’t it?” John teased.

Sherlock’s hand snaked between their bodies and stroked John’s cock. John arched up into Sherlock’s touch, all of the air rushing out of his lungs at the sensation and pleasure. “Yes, it is. An astute observation Doctor.”

John laughed and kissed Sherlock at the same time, “You’re a cock.” Sherlock smirked against his lips and looked pleased enough at John calling him a cock that John might’ve believed he’d called him something lovely like sweetheart or darling.

“I like the way you gasp. I like the way you taste,” Sherlock murmured dipping down to kiss John again. “I like the way your body presses into mine like I’m not close enough to you when my body is literally covering every inch of yours.” Sherlock kissed him and John stroked his hands along his body, digging into the muscles of Sherlock’s back with his fingers.

“Sherlock,” John whispered because this felt amazing and even if he was steadfastly not saying the words aloud, he really loved this man.

“I love the way you say my name,” Sherlock said, his hips starting to thrust just a bit quicker and more erratically. “It’s different every time you say it. And I always know exactly how you feel about whatever I’m doing by the way you say my name. I like the way the r and the l roll together off your tongue. I like that you always say my entire name and not just a shortened, terrible version of it. I love the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, I’d know that sound anywhere.”

John leaned up and kissed him, running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to appreciate something like the way another human said his name.

“I have lists,” Sherlock whispered, his hips juddering as John clenched around his cock.

“Lists of the ways I say your name?” John questioned, more lost in Sherlock’s eyes than he was in the conversation.

“No, of things I like about you,” Sherlock replied. “I harbor an impressive amount of fondness for you.”

John grinned at him, “Careful, you’re going to over inflate my ego.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Would you like me to, ahh,” he gasped as John intentionally clenched around his cock just to see his reaction. “Fuck,” he murmured, dropping his head to the crook of John’s neck and rocking his hips harder against John’s arse.

“I like your voice,” John confessed breathlessly, arching into Sherlock and trapping his cock between their bodies. “I have for ages, that public school lilt, the way it reverberates in my body, it’s intoxicating.”

“My voice?” Sherlock asked, his nose scrunching.

“Surely I’m not the first person to tell you that you have a fantastic voice?” John murmured.

“No, I think you are,” Sherlock replied, reaching between their bodies to grasp John’s cock in his hand.

“Well if the career as a consulting detective ever falls through, phone sex operator could be an excellent back up,” John quipped.

Sherlock stroked his cock and shook his head, blushing sweetly.

John cupped the other man’s face in his palms and kissed him, he was so sweet sometimes, so innocent. “You’re adorable,” John murmured against his lips.

“Adorable?” Sherlock spat.

John laughed, “Yes, you really are.” John wrapped his legs a bit higher around Sherlock’s waist and gasped at the slight angle change, Sherlock was starting to lose his rhythm, his breath coming out in gasps, his lip trapped between his teeth in concentration. He thought again that Sherlock was beautiful. “Are you going to come for me?” John murmured, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock shook his head, a look of utter concentration on his face.

“No?” John asked, “Why the hell not?”

“You’re not there yet,” Sherlock gasped out.

He wasn’t entirely wrong, John wasn’t quite there, he was well on his way. “Stop,” John said.

Sherlock looked up at him, his face covered in confusion.

“If you want me to come with you, stop,” John said again.

Sherlock stopped and groaned as he pulled out of John’s hole. John leaned up and kissed him quickly before pushing him back so he could roll onto his hands and knees, presenting his arse to Sherlock. He looked over his shoulder at the other man who was staring at his body like it was a work of art.

“Go ahead,” John encouraged.

Sherlock looked up at him, “But you said you liked being able to kiss me, touch me, and see me. None of those things can happen in this position.”

John laughed, “I like a lot of things about you, Sherlock. I may not have lists thought out but there is no shortage of things I like about you. I really like sex with you, to be honest; I’m not terribly hard to please. Put your cock back inside of me, cover me with your body, kiss my neck,” John murmured.

Sherlock groaned and did all of those things, pressing his cock in and draping himself over John. He slicked his lips along John’s shoulder and his neck and John groaned. “That’s perfect, now start thrusting.”

“Bossy,” Sherlock murmured.

“Yes,” John replied. “You like it, don’t try to lie to me.”

Sherlock chuckled in John’s ear, “I do, heaven help me.”

John’s smirk was short lived, because Sherlock had done just as John had told him and thrust home into John’s body. “Oh, fuck yes,” John shouted. “Yes, right there, don’t stop.”

Sherlock did just as he was told, rocking into John’s body over and over. John pressed back against him and drew forward, working his body with Sherlock’s. Then Sherlock hand wrapped around John’s cock and he started to stroke, it didn’t quite line up quite with his thrusts, but Sherlock’s entire body was shaking so John couldn’t hold it against him. “John, please,” Sherlock whimpered.

“Fuck that’s hot,” John groaned.

“What? Me asking you to come? I’ll ask you again,” Sherlock offered.

“No,” John groaned, Sherlock fist gripping him tighter. “Well, yes,” John amended, “But I was talking about the word please coming out of your mouth.”

“Please come,” Sherlock groaned shamelessly. “Please, I need to feel you around me.”

John groaned, “Yes,” his whispered, dropping his head forward onto his forearms and looking down to watch Sherlock stroke his cock. “Yes,” he whispered again. “Yes, oh. Sherlock,” he whimpered. “Sherlock. Come for me,” he whispered.

And that was literally all it took to push Sherlock over the edge. Sherlock’s hips slammed against John’s arse and he stilled, groaning John’s name and stroking his cock roughly a few more times. John was over the edge then, crying out Sherlock’s name.

They collapsed onto the bed then, John’s arms and legs gave way and Sherlock landed on top of him, not bothering to move for long moments. Then Sherlock was pressing kisses along John’s shoulders and neck, starting to draw back.

“Not yet,” John groaned, reaching back and stilling Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock obeyed, his body relaxing into John’s. He rubbed his nose along John’s neck and shoulder, nuzzling him like an overgrown cat. “You are outstanding,” Sherlock murmured into John’s skin. “You’re brilliant.”

John hummed, his entire body and brain feeling foggy, “Yes,” John replied. “What you said.”

Sherlock laughed and kissed his shoulder, pulling out of his body. John whined petulantly. “I’ll be right back,” Sherlock told him.

John rolled to look at him, “Promise?” he asked, his heart thudding in fear.

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together as though John were a puzzle he was trying to understand. He cocked his head at him, “Of course,” he leaned in and kissed John’s lips again. “For as long as you’ll have me,” he murmured, brushing his lips over John’s as he spoke. “I’m only going to fetch a flannel,” he said softly, pulling back to look in John’s eyes. “I’ll be right back."

“‘Kay,” John murmured, cupping Sherlock’s neck in his palm and drawing him down for another kiss.

Sherlock groaned against his mouth and melted into the touch. Sherlock pulled back and brushed his nose along John’s, “Let me take care of you.” He cupped John’s cheek in his palm and brushed his thumb over his cheekbone. “Will you let me do that?”

John nodded, but leaned up and captured Sherlock’s lips once more for good measure, kissing him long and hard, pouring how much he loved him into the kiss. John was the one to pull back first this time and he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, his lips parted slightly, a light flush covered his cheeks. John smiled at him and leaned up to press a kiss to his forehead.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open to look at John then, “I..” he murmured, his voice trailing off. “That was,” he swallowed and shook his head. “I haven’t the words,” he murmured.

He pressed a quick peck to John’s lips and left the room before they could distract each other again. John couldn’t help but smile after the other man, this didn’t even seem real. He pulled the pillow that he’d covered in come out from under his back and tossed it onto the floor, glad that he didn’t have to get up to change the sheets (He was also glad that Sherlock insisted on having six or seven pillows on his bed, it seemed practical now.)

Just as he was starting to worry that Sherlock had been a product of his drunken mind’s imaginings (it hadn’t been long, two minutes tops but he’d had these things happen so many times before) Sherlock came back into the room, a flannel clenched in his hand.

John reached out to him immediately, drawing him back into bed and kissing him again; sweet, soft pecks that made Sherlock grin against his lips. Finally Sherlock pulled back and cupped John's cheek in his palm again, “You’re incredible,” he murmured.

“Hardly,” John scoffed.

Sherlock glanced up at his face before he carefully washed John’s stomach then pushed at his side, “Roll over,” he murmured.

John groaned, “You’re so much work.”

Sherlock laughed, “It’ll be worth it.” Sherlock washed his back and his thighs before parting John’s buttocks to gently wipe that skin clean, too.

John groaned, if he’d been a younger man it might have been enough to get him going again.

Sherlock laughed, “You’re incorrigible. No wonder you were never single for more than a few weeks.”

“That’s not true,” John said, rolling onto his back once again. He took the flannel out of Sherlock’s hands and tossed it onto the floor next to the pillow he was going to have to wash tomorrow. “For about a year before you jumped off Bart’s I didn't date anyone and I haven’t seen anyone since Mary died. I was waiting for you.”

Sherlock smiled crookedly at John and climbed into bed. “I was never really interested in sex before you.” He yawned and pillowed his head on John’s chest, “I always thought I was asexual; there was the passing curiosity about male bodies but I never had any real interest in it. But then you came along and I got to learn what it had been like to be inside all of the minds of my peers when they were 17.”

John snorted and stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, he wanted the other man to continue, he wanted to know what he’d been thinking and feeling while John was falling in love with him.

“Turns out there’s also a word for that,” he murmured.

“Late bloomer?” John teased.

Sherlock snorted, “No, I meant for only having sexual attractions toward someone you’re emotionally connected with. Demisexual,” Sherlock mumbled sleepily. “Demi meaning halfway- like halfway between being sexual and asexual.”

“Sherlock?” John murmured, stroking his fingers down Sherlock’s spine.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied.

“You’re babbling,” he said, placing a kiss on top of Sherlock’s head, “It’s all fine, remember?” John asked, smiling at the memory, they’d been so young then. Sherlock yawned again, “It’s alright to fall asleep,” he whispered

“Are you sure?” He asked through his yawn.

“Yes,” John promised, rubbing Sherlock’s scalp with his fingertips. Sherlock groaned. “I promise to be here when you wake up.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one promising you that?” Sherlock mumbled.

John’s heart almost stopped, was this a confession?

“You seemed very keen on keeping me here instead of going to get a flannel,” Sherlock said.

“Feel free to promise me the same thing,” John replied, no confession then, just Sherlock being Sherlock.

“I promise,” Sherlock murmured, stroking his fingers lightly along John’s rib cage. “Every morning, if you like.”

John smiled, “I would like that very much,” he whispered.

“Me too,” Sherlock said and then he was quiet. John fell asleep not too long after that, praying that Sherlock would actually still be there in the morning.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, dear ones; life has (as ever, it seems) gotten the better of me and time has slipped through my fingers. This work is finished and I will be posting the rest of it by no later than the end of this week. Originally there was just one more chapter after this one, but it sprawled a bit and might end up getting broken into 2 or 3 more manageable pieces. 
> 
> At any rate, thank you for all of the lovely comments on this work. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

John couldn’t count the number of times he’d wished that he could wake up next to Sherlock. He’d wanted it for so long. He’d wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to be the first thing that he saw when he awoke in the morning. He wanted to see his curls messy and riotous, he wanted to see his sleep pinked cheeks, he wanted to watch his eyes flutter open. He wanted to taste Sherlock’s skin still warm from sleep, he wanted to share awkward soft kisses. Oh, how he wanted.

And so, when John awoke the next morning, he was almost afraid to open his eyes. He had imagined nights with Sherlock so many times and he always opened his eyes to an empty bed. He steeled himself and bit his lower lip to open his right eye just a slit. What he saw was enough for him to open both eyes immediately.

Sherlock hadn’t disappeared during the night, rather he had spread out to take up more room, lying flat on his back with his limbs thrown in every direction. His curls were tangled and his mouth was a bit open, every third or fourth exhale produced a grunting sort of snore. But, oh, John had never loved the man more. The blankets were half on and half off his body, modestly covering his groin and his right leg but leaving the rest of his (frankly ridiculously stunning) body on display.

He laid on his side and ran feather light fingers along Sherlock’s arm and chest, stroking his beautiful smooth skin and watching in fascination. He would never get enough of seeing Sherlock like this, it would never cease to feel like a miracle.

He watched as Sherlock started to stir, his hands clenching into fists and his eyes scrunching against reality for a moment before they opened. He immediately turned his head to look at John and John couldn’t help but grin at him; his stomach flipping when their eyes met. “Morning,” he whispered.

“‘Lo,” Sherlock murmured, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep.

John stroked his fingers along Sherlock’s cheek, caressing his skin and stroking his cheekbone. Then he leaned forward slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Sherlock sighed and melted into the kiss, his body soft and pliant under John’s hands. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and drew them closer together again, holding Sherlock tightly.

When John drew back, Sherlock kept his eyes closed stroking his fingers along John’s skin making John body tingly and light. “Tell me you’re not a dream,” Sherlock whispered, making John’s heart ache and feel full all at once.

He brushed his nose along Sherlock’s, “I’m not a dream,” he whispered. He kissed him again before he added, “Although I was afraid last night was when I woke up.”

Sherlock smiled, his eyes still closed, “Yes,” he murmured in agreement.

“I can't believe I have you here, in my bed, in my life,” John murmured, stroking his fingers once more along Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open at that, “You’ve had me since that very first night,” Sherlock said softly. “From the moment you said, ‘I don’t have to,’ and put my whole world in perspective without trying to make me feel stupid. You are a rare human being, John.”

“Not so rare,” John murmured, brushing his lips teasingly along Sherlock’s just a whisper of skin on skin before pulling back, “Not like you are.”

Sherlock shrugged, his voice breathy, “Tell me I can keep you,” he begged and John couldn’t help but find this incredibly sweet and soft.

“Of course you can,” John said softly. “I’m at your disposal.”

Sherlock hummed low in his throat, “In that case,” he murmured, rolling the two of them so he could straddle John’s hips. He looked down at John and John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's and hunkered down so their bodies were pressed together; soft, sleepy bodies that hadn’t fully woken up but decidedly dedicated to sharing the same space. John let his fingers stroke along Sherlock’s warm skin, sighing into the kiss as he held the other man close.

Sherlock pulled back after a long moment, “What are your expectations for this morning?”

“I don’t have any expectations,” John said honestly. “It’s just enough to have you here with me. It feels like a miracle,” he whispered.

Sherlock brushed his nose along John’s, “Can I take a shower before we have sex again?” he murmured. “My skin feels tight and itchy and as much as I want to stay in here and touch you I just can’t get past how dreadful my skin feels.”

John chuckled, “Yeah, dried come will do that to you.” He stroked his hands up and down Sherlock's back. “Or we could do both at the same time,” he offered. “More environmentally friendly, too,” John pointed out innocently. “Think of the water we’d save.”

“Are you asking to shower with me?” Sherlock asked with a grin.

“Only if you’re okay with it,” John said, brushing Sherlock’s curls from his face.

Sherlock nodded, leaning down to kiss John, “You’re brilliant,” he murmured against John’s lips.

“We should have started having sex ages ago,” John said, “You’re tremendous for my ego.”

“Well, we’ve really found your area of expertise here, haven’t we?” Sherlock said with a grin he couldn’t seem to wipe off his face as he sat up and stretched.

John ran his tongue along his bottom lip as he took in the beauty of Sherlock’s body, he was perfect. “You are so beautiful,” John murmured.

Sherlock hummed, flushing at the praise as he climbed out of bed, “Come on,” he said tugging John’s hand.

John groaned as he followed his lover out of bed; his body ached, his muscles were sore in all of the right ways.

“What’s wrong,” Sherlock asked, his voice soft and concerned as he took John’s hand in his and looked him up and down. “What hurts?”

“Everything,” John said with a grin as he leaned up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “It’s fantastic.”

Sherlock laughed, “I didn't realize I was dating a masochist.”

“Dating hmm?” John hummed as he followed Sherlock to the loo. “That sounds rather serious.”

“Tell that to your hoards of exes,” Sherlock said, looking at him over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow as he started the water.

“I haven't got hoards of exes,” John said with a laugh. “And if dating isn't serious, what should we call this so that people will know I'm serious about you?” he asked lightly as he stepped into the shower.

“I don't think anyone will doubt how serious we are,” Sherlock murmured, stepping in behind John and wrapping his arms around John's waist, resting his chin on John's shoulder. “I don't think anyone's even going to be surprised.”

“You're probably right,” John murmured as he turned around but he wasn't really invested in the conversation anymore. He was too distracted by the perfection that was Sherlock’s body as he slid his hands along Sherlock's wet skin and drew him into another kiss. He felt perfect.

Sherlock groaned and pressed their bodies together, sliding sinuously against John as he wrapped his fingers in John's hair and rubbed at his scalp.

“You're perfect,” John murmured, drawing back far enough that he could look at the other man’s face. He brushed Sherlock’s wet curls back from his forehead. “You’re so ridiculously stunning.”

“You’re ridiculous period,” Sherlock mumbled, a flush colouring his cheeks at John’s words.

John brushed his finger over that lovely blush, cupping Sherlock’s face as he leaned up to kiss the other man again. While John kissed him he reached for Sherlock’s soap and uncapped it. He worked it into a lather in his hands and began stroking along Sherlock’s skin. It smelled fantastic and it made John’s toes curl with pleasure.

He worked his hands along Sherlock’s back and shoulders, rubbing at tense muscles and skimming over his smooth skin. Then he let his hands slip forward and they rubbed over Sherlock’s chest; he paused for a moment on Sherlock's nipples, brushing lightly over them to make them erect before pinching at those sensitive nubs. Sherlock groaned against John’s mouth and his fingers clasped tighter to John’s shoulders.

John didn’t let himself get too distracted by Sherlock’s nipples, lovely though they were. He continued his journey downward, his fingers skimming along Sherlock’s sides as his thumbs brushed along his abdomen.

When he reached Sherlock’s hips he paused and drew Sherlock’s body flush with his own as he kissed the other man soundly. Once Sherlock had settled a bit, John covered his palms in soap once more and reached around to cup Sherlock’s buttocks in his palms.

Sherlock’s hips bucked against him and he cried out against John’s lips as his fingers scrabbled for purchase. “Yes,” he whispered.

John smiled, “You are stunningly sensitive. I hope you don’t lose that the more familiar you get with sex with me.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes opening to look at John. “I don’t think it will ever seem less than incredible that you would want this with me.”

John pressed a quick kiss to the other man’s lips, glad they felt the same about the miracle that was their relationship. He let his fingers brush between Sherlock’s buttocks, rubbing at his hole for a long moment as Sherlock squirmed and moaned, his cock pressing insistently at John’s hip. After a long moment of teasing, John removed his hands from Sherlock’s arse and grabbed the bottle of shampoo. He started to scrub Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock reached over to return the favor. They took turns under the direct spray rinsing out one another’s hair and laughing when they got tangled in each other's limbs.  Sherlock seemed completely preoccupied with the novelty of kissing John so John allowed himself to be kissed, varying the way their lips came together giving him long, drawn out kisses interspersed with soft, sweet pecks and everything in between.

John grabbed the conditioner bottle and lathered the conditioner into Sherlock’s curls, gently detangling with his fingers. Sherlock hummed in contentment and pulled the soap over so he could wash John’s body. John groaned appreciatively and leaned in to kiss the other man as he rinsed his hair.

After he’d gotten all of the conditioner rinsed from Sherlock curls he grabbed the bottle and worked some conditioner into his own hair.

Sherlock’s hands froze on John’s body and he cocked his head at him, “You don’t use conditioner.”

John’s brow furrowed, “I do with the product I put in it now. I didn’t used to back in the old days.”

Sherlock hummed, “I do like the way you’ve started doing your hair.” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, then, brushing it back from his face. “Very sexy.” Sherlock leaned forward and dropped his lips to John’s shoulder, he slicked along that skin. “It’s very confident, very suave. A lot less boy next door than it used to be.”

“I didn’t have a boy next door look,” John protested.

“Yes you did,” Sherlock said, groaning as his hands slid down John's back. “And I loved it but I think I like this more, it’s got that don’t fuck with me vibe.” Sherlock’s hands slid back up John’s back and neck so they could tangle in his hair. Sherlock groaned against John’s lips.

“Yeah,” John said with a laugh, “You have a problem.”

Sherlock groaned and sucked at John’s collarbone, John gasped and tilted his head back to give Sherlock more room to maneuver. “I know.”

John chuckled again at Sherlock's complete transparency and let his hands trail down Sherlock’s spine until he could rub at the other man’s arse. “You really do have a fantastic arse.”

“So you’ve said,” Sherlock murmured, rocking his hips against John and pressing his erection against John’s hip.

“Yeah, you should probably get used to that,” John commented, giving Sherlock’s arse a quick squeeze before pulling out of Sherlock’s arms and switching spots with the other man. He moved around Sherlock so the other man’s hands were pressed against the wall and he was behind him, cupping his waist in his hands. He’d been about to rub his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders when he saw the scars. Sherlock’s back was positively cover in them, long slightly raised lines that stood out white against his pale skin.

John glanced up at the back of the other man’s head, admittedly, he was immensely curious but then Sherlock’s body froze under his hands and John knew his mind had caught up with what John was seeing. “John,” Sherlock started, trying to turn around and hide his body.

“Shh,” John whispered, pressing his lips to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and rubbing his hands over Sherlock’s sides, trying to soothe the tension from his body. He pressed their bodies together, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist as he laved kisses along Sherlock’s shoulders. “You’re beautiful,” John murmured into his skin.

“Don’t lie to me,” Sherlock spat, his voice tense, his body coiled as tight as a spring.

John stroked his hands over Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s torso and drawing their bodies even closer. “I’m not lying,” John murmured into the flesh of Sherlock’s shoulder. “You are the most stunning, beautiful person I have ever known.”

Sherlock relaxed minutely against John and something unclenched in the pit of John’s stomach; he kissed Sherlock’s neck again, opening his mouth and moving it along Sherlock’s slick skin. Sherlock sighed against the contact and his body shuddered and melted further.

“You’re perfect,” John whispered, “I adore you.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice entirely different than it had been only minutes ago and John decided then and there that he was going to leave the scars alone. No sense in dragging up ancient history and they did look old, they looked like they might have been left over from adolescence; they were faded enough that they couldn’t have been too terribly recent. The scars forced tenderness for the other man to bloom in John’s chest and all but choke him. He loved this man so much and he couldn’t imagine someone hurting him.

John let his hands drift over Sherlock's stomach and his hips, revelling in the way Sherlock shuddered against him and gasped his name. John stroked a hand over Sherlock’s cock, it wasn’t quite as erect as it had been a few minutes ago but John was sure that he could remedy that in short order.

Sherlock gasped as John continued his teasing strokes with his left hand and let his right hand trail further between Sherlock’s legs to fondle his balls. Sherlock spread his legs further at the touch and his forehead dropped forward onto his forearms where they were crossed against the shower wall.

John smiled against Sherlock’s shoulder and released his balls, his hand slicked along Sherlock’s hip and back before his fingers delved between Sherlock’s buttocks and brushed over the other man’s hole. Sherlock’s entire body jerked at the touch and his cock twitched in John’s hand, now fully erect. “Beautiful,” John whispered.

“We should have brought the lube with us,” Sherlock said with a groan.

“Ah, no,” John said softly, pressing his fingers around Sherlock’s hole and massaging just to hear the way Sherlock whimpered and feel him press back against his hand.

“No?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John replied. “The lube we have wouldn’t work well in the shower, it would end up dissolving and then I would hurt you. Plus,” John added with a smirk against Sherlock’s shoulder, “Anal sex is actually really uncomfortable and impractical in the shower; it’s hard to get the right angles, you could slip and fall, lube issues, etcetera.”

“Then why are you teasing me mercilessly?” Sherlock said through a groan even as his body pressed back against John’s fingers, trying to press them inside of his body. “I was quite looking forward to that.”

John groaned against Sherlock’s shoulder and his fingers pressed a bit more firmly over Sherlock’s hole, tempted in spite of himself. “Another time, I promise.”

“Is that the line you’re going to feed me every time we have sex, ‘Another time, I promise?’” Sherlock whinged.

John laughed, “We can get out of the shower and I’ll fuck you,” he offered. “But shower sex can be pretty spectacular and we are already here.”

Sherlock sighed, “Fine,” he murmured petulantly.

John kissed his shoulder, “I promise to make it up to you.”

Sherlock shuddered as John’s hand gave his cock just a little more friction, “I don’t doubt that,” he murmured.

John smirked and released the other man’s erection to reach for the soap, Sherlock groaned. “Be just a little patient,” John said with a laugh.

“Patience is not a strong suit of mine,” Sherlock said.

“On the one hand,” John said as he spread some of the suds on his own cock, “I would absolutely agree with you. I’ve seen the havoc you’ve wreaked when you’re bored. But on the other hand, look how long it’s taken us to get together and you’re still here.”

“That wasn’t patience,” Sherlock said before he cut himself off to gasp as John rubbed soap between his thighs and buttocks, teasingly rubbing circles on the other man’s perineum. “Fucking hell. It’s completely unfair that you know my body better than I do.”

“Well, I am a doctor,” John said mildly. “Besides, I’m giving it a week max before you have every single one of my weak spots discovered and exploit them without mercy.” Sherlock snorted and John pressed another kiss to his neck, this one just under his ear. “So if it wasn’t patience, what was it?” John asked curiously, steering Sherlock back toward their original conversation as he nibbled at his earlobe.

“Self preservation,” Sherlock answered.

“Self perseveration? How so?” John asked, affronted.

“Because you were constantly denying that you were gay, you said it all the time. Even if I didn’t believe you, and I didn’t, who was I to tell you that you weren’t straight?” Sherlock murmured, glancing over his shoulder at John. “Sexuality, I’m told, is something highly personal and look how you reacted when I deduced Jim Moriarty in disguise was gay.”

“That still doesn’t explain how it was self preservation,” John grumbled, even though he knew Sherlock was probably right, if he’d come right out and told John he was gay John would have been pissed.

“It was selfish, I didn’t want to risk losing you as my friend,” Sherlock said softly.

At that John softened a bit, he was crazy about this man. “I completely understand that,” he said as he slipped his cock between Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock groaned and instinctively clenched down around John’s cock, “Fuck,” he groaned, and his head thunked forward onto the wall again.

“That is rather the idea,” John said with a grin.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, “Your cock has undeniably become one of my favourite features of you.”

John laughed and thrust through the channel of Sherlock’s thighs, trying to angle the right way so his shaft brushed over Sherlock's hole. If the racket Sherlock made was anything to go by he was successful.

“That feels fantastic,” Sherlock groaned.

“Good,” John said, leaning his body against Sherlock’s and caging Sherlock’s body with his arms. Sherlock’s right arm reached around behind him to grab John’s hip and he groaned as John continued a slow steady thrust. “Sherlock?” John asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked through the way his breath caught in his throat.

“What’s better than fantastic?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said with a groan. “Incoherency?”

John smirked against Sherlock's shoulder, "Just checking so I know what to look for," he said as he reached down to take Sherlock’s cock in his fist again, rubbing the suds along the other man’s erection. Sherlock’s hips jerked into the contact and he let out a string of swear words and John’s name.

John kissed the other man’s shoulder, “Thrust,” he murmured, making his own fist a tight channel for Sherlock to work his cock through which in turn caused Sherlock’s muscles in his thighs and buttocks to clench around John’s erection harder.

“Oh,” Sherlock whimpered and his hips pressed harder. “John,” he cried.

“I’ve got you,” John replied. “You’re so stunning,” he told him. “Keep working that cock through my fist, you gorgeous man. That’s it,” John groaned, “Beautiful. You feel perfect.” John twisted his fist around the head of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock cried out and his hips rolled harder, working himself through John's fist over and over. “Uhhn,” he groaned, grinding back and down against John’s cock. “Oh,” he whimpered. “That’s amazing.”

John chuckled, “Just imagine how much better it will feel when I’m inside of you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, his hips kicking up another notch and shuddering. John angled his cock just a bit differently, making it so he was pressing more firmly against Sherlock’s hole every time one of them rocked. “John,” Sherlock gasped. “Please,” he whimpered.

“What do you need sweetheart?” John murmured, sucking a bruise into Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock gasped, “Stroke my cock,” he begged. “Touch me,” he whimpered.

John gave him what he wanted, he started working his fist up and down Sherlock’s length, grasping the other man’s cock firmly and continuing the twist at the end. Sherlock cried out and his hips lost their rhythm, freezing occasionally to better process the sensations. John started rocking his hips against Sherlock’s arse harder as he stroked his cock.

John let his unoccupied hand slip between Sherlock's legs and roll his soak slicked balls in his palm and it was only a moment of incoherent moaning before Sherlock’s entire body locked up and his hips jerked once more in his fist, his cock pulsing as he came against the wall, John’s name on his lips. “Beautiful,” John murmured softly, “That’s it.”

John stroked him through his orgasm and Sherlock all but collapsed against the wall once he was spent.  John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest to hold him up, brushing his fingers soothingly over Sherlock’s chest as his breathing slowed. Sherlock turned in John’s arms, dislodging John’s cock much to his displeasure, “That was outstanding.” He kissed John for a long moment and John had just settled into the kiss, drawing Sherlock closer to him and arching into the contact when Sherlock broke away and sank to his knees in front of John.

And if Sherlock on his knees, staring up at him under heavily lidded eyes wasn’t the most fantastically sexy thing John had ever seen he didn’t know what was. The man was beautiful; those plush wet lips were just begging for John to slide his cock across them. So John did just that, he grasped the root of his cock and dragged the tip of his cock over Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch and his tongue snaked out to rub over his bottom lip where John’s cock had just been.

His eyes opened and Sherlock drew his fingers up and down John’s thighs, looking up at him under his eyelashes impishly before opening his mouth. Sherlock took just the head of John’s cock into his mouth, sucking lightly and flicking against the tip, making John groan.

The gentle sucking and licking lasted for a few blissful minutes then, quite suddenly and without any warning, Sherlock slid his mouth down John’s shaft, swallowing him down until his nose brushed John’s groin. John cried out and his fingers clenched in Sherlock’s curls, “Fuck,” he gasped. He could count on one hand the number of people who’d been able to swallow his cock and he hadn’t expected Sherlock, who had said he was a virgin last night, to be one of them.

Sherlock pulled back and his eyes smirked up at John even as his lips and mouth worked the head of John’s cock.

“How the hell do you know how to deepthroat?” John groaned, rubbing Sherlock’s scalp with his fingers.

Sherlock pulled back, “It was for a case, John.”

He leaned back toward John’s cock but John tugged at his curls, there was no way he was just letting that one go. Sherlock groaned as John pulled at his curls and John tucked that bit of information away for later use. “You learned how to deepthroat for a case?” he asked incredulously.

“No,” Sherlock said with a smirk, “I learned how to swallow swords for a case; a cock is nothing compared to that.” He licked his lower lip and looked up at John, “Even yours.”

“You’re insane, you know that,” John asked, but laughter was bubbling in his throat and he feared it rather ruined the effect.

Sherlock smirked up at him, “I’ve heard that a time or two.” Then he leaned back in and sucked at John’s cock for a few long moments. He licked and laved at the head as though it were an ice lolly, groaning and holding the shaft in his hand to lick up the precome that had formed on the tip of John’s cock.

“You’re filthy,” John informed him, his fingers clenching and unclenching in Sherlock’s curls as he watched the other man.

“You enjoy it,” Sherlock said, pulling back and stroking his fingers teasingly over John’s cock, rubbing his fingers over the glans.

“I do,” John affirmed.

Sherlock looked up at him under his eyelashes, then, “Fuck my mouth,” he said innocently.

He knew just what he was doing, John thought, knew exactly which buttons to push to turn John on beyond belief. John groaned, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Sherlock assured him. “I trained myself not to have a gag reflex and I excel in relaxing the muscles in my larynx.”

John couldn’t help but laugh, it was such a Sherlock-thing to say.

Sherlock however, looked mildly offended by his snort, “I have,” he said defensively.

“I believe you,” John said with a laugh. “I just don’t think I’ve ever been propositioned in such a clinical way.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together, “Did I do it wrong?”

“No,” John said, cupping the other man’s face in his hands. “Not at all. You’re perfect and you make me ridiculously happy.”

“Then, hop to it and fuck my mouth,” Sherlock’s said.

“I don’t think anyone's ever asked me to fuck their mouth either,” John said, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Come on, John, you wouldn’t fuck me and you promised to make it up to me,” Sherlock whined.

“And fucking my cock down your throat will make it up to you, will it?” John asked in amusement.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied easily.

John laughed, “Why am I even arguing with you?”

“I haven't the faintest idea. You can be exceptionally contrary sometimes,” Sherlock said slipping his mouth back on the tip of John’s cock.

“You’ll stop me if I hurt you?” John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and didn’t respond in favor of sucking at John’s cock.

John gave his curls a firm tug to draw Sherlock off his member, “Sherlock,” he growled. “Questions like that require a yes or no answer.”

Sherlock whimpered, his eyes wide and dark as he stared up at John, “Yes,” he whispered but his mind was a million miles away and John could tell he had absolutely no idea what he’d just agreed to.

He was a dream, this had to be a dream, John thought feverishly; no one could be this perfect. “Yes what?” John prompted, trying to get the other man to acknowledge what he was saying yes to.

Sherlock blinked at him. “Sir?” he asked.

John stared at him, mouth agape, that was not what he’d expected. He cleared his throat, “I meant, what are you agreeing to,” John clarified.

“Oh,” he murmured, “Umm,” Sherlock hummed, looking between John’s face and his cock then back to his face again. “Yes, I will tell you if you hurt me.”

“Good,” John said massaging Sherlock’s scalp with his finger tips. Sherlock groaned and his eyes fluttered shut at the contact. “Right, so you’ve a thing for having your hair played with.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still closed and lips slightly parted as he sank back on his haunches and tilted his head back into John’s hands.

“You’re beautiful,” John whispered. At the words, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John. “I keep wondering if you’re a dream,” John confessed.

Sherlock blinked and the fog seemed to clear just a bit from his eyes. “I’m really not,” he murmured but his words were understanding, not judgemental. “I’m here,” he whispered, leaning in and resting his forehead against John’s hip. John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “I’m right here,” Sherlock murmured. Something in John’s chest clenched at the words, something felt tight and made him want to weep.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s thigh before he drew back and began sucking at the tip of John’s cock, staring up at him under his eyelashes once again. Then he just waited.

John wrapped his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, his head tilting to give John access to his mouth and John pressed his cock between Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock groaned around his cock and John slowly worked himself in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, pressing in a little deeper each time until he had sunk all of the way in. He and Sherlock groaned in tandem and John started to pull out but Sherlock’s fingers came up, gripping John’s buttocks in his palms and holding him in place as he swallowed around the head of John’s cock a few times. “Sherlock,” John gasped, his body shuddering.

Then Sherlock relaxed his hold on John and John drew all the way out. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his palm, “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward, putting John’s cock back in his mouth again. They continued that way, John rocking his cock in and out of Sherlock’s mouth, pressing in and drawing out, giving Sherlock time to breathe before he pressed back in again. He couldn’t help the way his hips started to hitch and the way his thrusts began to speed up. Sherlock just groaned and whimpered around John’s cock for a long time until he seemed to get used to it then he started to roll his tongue along the underside of John’s shaft and John’s fingers clenched tighter in Sherlock’s curls, “Fuck, Sherlock. That feels amazing,” he whispered.

Sherlock groaned in affirmation and kept it up and John started to press in a bit harder, “That’s so good,” he praised, “You’re perfect.”

Sherlock groaned and then slurped around John cock.

“Fuck,” John cried, the sound of Sherlock slurping and sucking around his cock making him twitch in Sherlock’s mouth. “Oh,” he whimpered, pushing his cock all the way into Sherlock’s mouth again, “Suck, baby.”

Sherlock whimpered around John’s cock and did just that.

“Yes,” John groaned, thrusting into Sherlock’s wet heat again, “Please, Sherlock. Oh, suck me.”

Sherlock groaned and obeyed, sucking with fervor, grasping John’s buttocks in his palms and kneading them.

“Flick your tongue around the head,” John requested, pulling back and leaving just the head in Sherlock’s mouth, in part to give Sherlock the chance to breathe and in part because Sherlock’s tongue was a marvel. “Yes,” he groaned as Sherlock did as John asked, “Oh, just a little harder, roll your tongue. Oh fuck, yes.” Then he was pressing in again, “Work the underside of my shaft with your tongue,” John requested. “Uhhn, yes. Oh my-” he was cut off by a fantastically hard suck and a firm press of tongue against his cock. “Sherlock,” he cried, “Yes! Yes,” he whimpered pressing in until he was all the way in and then sliding back out again.

Sherlock groaned and continued sucking at the head. “Yes,” John moaned, “Oh yes. Please, Sherlock,” he begged. “Please, oh, suck me, Fuck. Make me come,” he begged.

Sherlock cried out around his cock and his throat squeezed the head of John’s cock and John almost came.

“Yes,” he cried, drawing back and thrusting in once again and then Sherlock’s fingers were reaching between John’s buttocks. John hadn’t even noticed Sherlock getting the soap but his slicked fingers rubbed around John’s hole. John cried out and his hips stuttered, pulling out and pressing back in. Then one slid up John’s hole and John was a goner. “Oh,” he groaned, trying to pull out, “I’m going to come,” he begged desperately but Sherlock pressed him into his mouth completely and John lost it down Sherlock’s throat, his hips making tiny abortive thrusts even though he was completely engulfed in Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock held his mouth in place until John’s cock stopped pulsing and then he drew back, sucking lightly and flicking his tongue along John’s sensitive flesh. John gasped his fingers stroking through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock sat back on his feet and looked up at John and John stared back at him. “That was incredible,” John murmured.

Sherlock smiled, a soft sweet smile filled with delight.

John cupped his face with his palm, “You’re the sweetest person I know,” John murmured. “And you do your best to hide it, but I know the truth about you, Sherlock Holmes. You just want to make people happy.”

“No,” Sherlock corrected, his voice coming out a bit scratchy and hoarse, “I want to make you happy.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of John’s palm.

“Well, you do a bang up job,” John replied.

“Probably depends on the day,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

John smiled back and offered his hands to pull Sherlock up off the floor of the bath. Sherlock took his hands but didn’t allow himself to be pulled up yet, he brought both of John’s knuckles to his lips and pressed soft kisses to both of his hands. Then he allowed John to help him off the floor, groaning as he stretched his knees.

They climbed out of the tub together, turning off the water which had mostly run cold before drying one another off. Once they were both dry, John wrapped a towel around Sherlock’s shoulders and drew him in for a kiss. Sherlock melted against John and they stood there leaning against one another and kissing for long moments.

When John pulled back he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, “I wonder if we could convince Molly to keep Rosie until this afternoon.”

“I already asked and she already said of course she would,” Sherlock said.

“What? When?” John asked, drawing back to look at Sherlock, they’d been together all morning, surely he would have noticed Sherlock texting.

Sherlock shrugged, “I woke up before you did and sent her a text, when she said yes I went back to sleep.”

“You’re brilliant,” John said, “Come back to bed then, I could use a nap and then maybe we can get up to a little more trouble if you’re feeling amenable.”

“Two orgasms in one morning aren't ambitious enough for you?” Sherlock murmured, following John back into the bedroom.

“Two?” John asked as he climbed into bed and the two of the snuggled close to one another, their bodies touching and crossing, their noses inches apart.

Sherlock nodded, his nose brushing along John’s. “You started talking and you were pulling my hair and I just got overwhelmed.”

“You came a second time this morning, completely untouched, because you had my cock in your mouth and I tugged on your hair?” John asked incredulously. “Are you even real?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said defensively, “I don’t always require manual stimulation. My mind is highly capable of-”

But whatever Sherlock’s mind was highly capable of, John didn’t wait to find out. His lips descended on Sherlock’s once again and he was devouring the other man. “You’re incredible,” John murmured. “Do you have any idea how ridiculously hot that is? You are going to completely over inflate my ego.”

Sherlock laughed and shook his head, John murmured, “I love it when you laugh.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, his nose wrinkling to form a crease between his eyebrows.

“Your laugh,” John said, stroking his index finger over the wrinkle on Sherlock’s nose. “I love it.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock said, “You’re high on endorphins.”

“No,” John refuted, “Well, maybe I am high on endorphins but it doesn’t change the fact that I love making you laugh. There’s nothing that feels better than being loved by someone who dislikes humanity at large.”

At that Sherlock snorted, his palms drifted along John’s back, “You think I love you, hmm?”

John felt his cheeks heat up, he was such an idiot, “In the way that comrades love one another,” he stammered. “You know, like brothers at arms, that sort of-”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s lips, his own curved up in a smirk, “Stop babbling,” he said. Sherlock brushed his nose along John’s and cupped his face in his palms, forcing John to make eye contact. “I do love you, John Watson. And there is nothing even remotely platonic about it.”

“I-” John started ready to defend himself again when the meaning of Sherlock’s words sunk in, “Wait. You love me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply and without guile.

“Really?” John asked, shock and disbelief colouring his entire being. This couldn’t be real.

“Yes,” Sherlock said again. “Of course I love you.”

“I love you, too,” John murmured, his lips descending on Sherlock’s again. When he pulled back he shook his head, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You’re incredible,” Sherlock murmured as though it were the most obvious thing in the world and John felt himself flush with pleasure. “How could you not know that I was head over heels for you?”

“You’re the most observant man on earth, how could you not know I was crazy about you?” John retorted.

“I had my suspicions before I jumped, which Mary later confirmed,” Sherlock started.

“Mary?” John said in surprise. “What? How?” he stammered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “She told me at your wedding that neither of us was the first person you’d loved because you were over making puppy eyes at Major Sholto-”

“I was not making puppy eyes at James at my own wedding!” John said indignantly. “I loved Mary.”

“I’m not denying that,” Sherlock said, with far more patience than John had believed the other man possessed. “I would never deny that you loved her, she was an incredible woman. I know you loved her very deeply and I know she loved you.”

“Sorry,” John murmured, feeling guilty about his outburst. “Sorry,” he repeated.

Sherlock leaned up and brushed their noses together before brushing his lips teasingly along John’s and making his breath hitch. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “I knew you loved her and I thought you might never love me again because of your love for her. Your wedding broke my heart; I have never endured pain the way I did that day.”

John’s heart ached for him, ached for the impossible situation they had been in.

Before John could apologize again, Sherlock started speaking once more, “And then when Mary died,” Sherlock’s eyes closed and his head tilted away from John’s. He exhaled again, “I knew I could never hope that you might love me again. I didn’t know what to do, how to save you, how to save myself. But she did,” Sherlock whispered. “She knew how I love you, knew the lengths I would go to in order that you might be saved.”

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing and John felt himself begin to tear up as well. “I thought I would love you from afar for the rest of my life, I’d been ready to guard you from the places you could not see, but you came back to me,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes once more and looking up at John under tear filled eyelashes. “You forgave me again for something I had done to you, for the heartbreak and tremendous loss I had caused not for the first time. I am so undeserving of you.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, surprised by how broken his voice sounded, “You’ve more than paid for what you perceive as your wrong doings. Mary jumped in front of that bullet to save you, nothing on earth could stop her when she put her mind to something.” John shook his head, “I forget how you loved her, I forget how she loved you. I forget how even when the two of us were being stubborn arses about not reaching out first after my wedding the two of you talked, about my weight gain nonetheless. I was selfish in my grief and it wasn’t fair to you. I don’t know how you’ve forgiven me.”

“There was nothing to forgive you for,” Sherlock said easily. “John,” he whispered, “The pain I caused-”

“No,” John said firmly, “No, you listen to me Sherlock Holmes. You didn’t cause that pain,” Sherlock started to speak and John pressed a finger to his lips. “You didn’t,” he said firmly. “You were the only thing that brought me to the other side of that pain. Nothing else could have saved me. Not my life, not my job, not even taking care of my own daughter. You saved me, Sherlock and you asked for nothing. You took nothing. You gave me forgiveness before I’d even known I should have desired it.”

“I deserve nothing from you, John,” Sherlock murmured. “But I am all the more grateful for your companionship because of that. I am lost without you.”

“I don’t seem to fare much better without you,” John replied, and that was the truth. “Let’s not try going it alone again, alright?”

Sherlock chuckled through his tears, “Yeah, alright.”

John kissed him then, the kiss was slow and sweet and a bit wet with tears, but it felt like something torn was mending and John couldn’t help but be glad of that. When he drew back again he revelled in the way Sherlock’s hands stroked up and down his back as he held him close. “Right,” John murmured, brushing his lips along Sherlock’s once more, “Let’s take a little nap and then when we wake up we’ll see if we can’t have a go at orgasm number three.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile and John leaned in to taste it on his lips before drawing back and pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock pressed John onto his back and then flopped on his chest, tucking his head under John’s chin and wrapping John in his limbs, his body curling around John’s like a cat’s.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John said softly.

He felt Sherlock smile against his chest, “I love you, too, John Watson.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are on the last bit! There are three more chapters (including this one.). Originally it was all one long chapter but it ended up being way, way too long so it's separated into three chunks. We are almost to the end, thank you everyone who has followed this work and has left me such lovely, sweet comments. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Blessings <3

As a rule, they didn't take Rosie with them on cases.

In fact they tried to limit most interaction she had with anything related to Sherlock and John's work. They left her downstairs with Mrs. Hudson when they were meeting with potential clients, Sherlock had moved all of his experimenting down to 221C, and Sherlock had once flat out refused a case because Dimmock had insisted he come immediately and they didn't have anyone to watch Rosie. (A part of that had been because Sherlock didn't take kindly to being ordered about by the Met but the larger part was Rosie.)

But it wasn't Dimmock calling this time, it was Greg and people were dying. The Detective Inspector had just found the body of a woman they estimated to be in her late twenties with a bag tied over her head and a row of circular burns down her neck. He suspected the dead woman’s body was connected to a human trafficking ring that they hadn't been able to get any traction on; it was the fifth one like this in as many weeks. The pictures Greg had sent had been horrific. It wasn't even really all that interesting of a case, maybe a three or four on Sherlock’s scale, Greg just needed their help. But John had noticed lately that Sherlock was helping more and more just for the sake of helping rather than just to prove how clever he was.

The trouble on this particular evening was that Mrs. Hudson was out visiting her sister, Molly was on a date, Lestrade was the one to call Sherlock in the first place, and there was no favor in the world large enough to convince Mycroft to watch her for the evening.

“We just won't go,” Sherlock said simply.

“We have to go,” John said. “Or you have to go at the very least.”

“I have to do no such thing,” Sherlock replied. “This is a case you would actually be useful on because of you medical background. If you don't go to this one I don't go.”  Sherlock shook his head as if John had suggested something completely ludicrous. 

And as much as John loved that Sherlock wanted him there, loved that he valued his opinion he couldn't conscience what was happening; he couldn't just let it happen when they could help. “Don't be ridiculous. You'd be fine, they have a forensics team.”

“I won't work with them,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“That's a far cry from what you said the first time we went to a crime scene. Back then it was 'They won't work with me,'"John said.

Rosie toddled over to him, reaching up and tugging at the hem of John's jumper.  "Up," she demanded.  Where had the time gone? John wondered idly. How had she started moving herself about? He hefted her up into his arms, she was growing so fast.

“They're idiots,” Sherlock said.

“I'm an idiot,” John reminded him.

“Yes but you're my idiot,” Sherlock clarified.

John laughed, “We could take her with us,” he suggested.

“Take her with us? Are you insane?” Sherlock spluttered. “John there is a human trafficking ring taking people out of their homes and out of the country, there are five dead women, and you want to bring your eighteen month old to a crime scene where one of them is lying dead."  Sherlock threw his hands up in the air, "Should we take her with us and hunt down the ring ourselves?  It's not that far out of the realm of things we've tackled."

“Of course I'm not suggesting we take her out to dismantle the ring.  Is that something you're honestly thinking about doing?"  John asked, even as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Lestrade would never let me get away with it," he said. "His team is too invested in it at this point.  The moment I insert myself past his reach he'll do something ridiculous like a drugs bust.  We work _together,"_ Sherlock spat as though it were something he found highly distasteful.  "Besides, we'd never be able to cover all of the potential victims' homes overselves, the radius is too wide for us to see them taking the victims from their homes and catch them."

"They're being taken out of their homes?” John asked. “Greg didn't tell us that.”

“It's obvious John,” Sherlock snapped. “Don't try and side track me. I already told Lestrade they're targeting single women who live alone, I already told him they’re being taken from inside their homes, I already gave him an age range of the targets, I already gave him the radius the people responsible are working in, and I gave him a few suggestions about who might be responsible and where they should start looking; that’s more than enough to be going on, don’t you think? He can do the rest. I don't understand why you think dragging your child there will help.”

“I wouldn't say I want to,” John said, treading carefully, Sherlock was oddly touchy about this, “But I think we need to. We can't just sit back and let this happen.”

“I've already given him more than his entire team combined,” Sherlock said stubbornly.

“Would we stop them faster from murdering and abducting people if we went to the crime scene?” John asked.

“Probably,” Sherlock conceded with a wince. “But John, think about Rosie. Imagine what could happen,” Sherlock started before looking away, his voice trailing off.

“But imagine if it was Rosie,” John said.

“John I would never-” Sherlock started.

“You'd never let that happened,” John said laying a hand on Sherlock's arm. “I know. But those girls being abducted are someone's child.”

“This job was easier when it was about my head and proving I was clever.” Sherlock complained.

John laughed, “Are we settled then?”

“Text Lestrade and tell him we’re coming and we’ll be there in ten minutes. I need to fetch something,” he muttered, leaving the living room and heading back toward their room.

John shrugged and moved to pick his mobile up off the desk and shot off a text to Greg, he received one back straight away:  **THANK YOU.**

John smiled down at his phone before looking over at his daughter and bouncing her in his arm, “What do you think, little Miss?” he asked. “Ready for your first real crime scene?”

“John, this isn’t something that we should treat like a milestone,” Sherlock said, approaching him from behind, stealthy as a cat. “It’s not like her first steps.”

“Sherlock, it’s going to be fine,” John said. “You told Lestrade earlier there was no chance they were coming back to where they dumped the body.”

Sherlock looked away for a moment, “What if I was wrong?” he murmured.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” John said. “You’re not wrong.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s quickly. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Norbury,” Sherlock said stiffly in the way that suggested he was trying to distance himself emotionally from the word.

“Norbury?” John asked. “Where is that?”

“It’s not a where,” Sherlock said, then he shook his head and held out a jacket to John. “Here, this is for Rosie.”

John reached out and took the jacket from Sherlock, it was precious really, a pretty pink colour, a little belt that tied into a bow, it looked remarkably like Sherlock’s belstaff in pink and miniature. “It’s lovely,” John said, looking at Sherlock questioningly.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. Then he sighed, “You don’t see it, do you?”

“Errm,” John hummed, looking at again and turning it in his hand even as Rosie reached out and tugged at it. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t.”

“It’s bulletproof,” Sherlock said softly.

“It’s what?” John asked, looking at it more closely. “Did you say bulletproof? It’s a bit lighter than anything bulletproof I’ve ever worn.”

“Yes, well she’s not a soldier, is she?” Sherlock asked. “She’s a child and she shouldn’t have to be bothered with hideous things just because of our life style.”

“Well, yes, fine. But how?” John asked, watching as Rosie put the belt in her mouth.

“It’s a polymer that was created by an old friend of mine at MIT, well I say friend,” Sherlock shook his head, “The point is he owed me a favor and shared the formula to make the fabric; it’s paper thin and can easily be sewn into linings. It’s years away from actually being approved for use, but,” Sherlock shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I've run it through extensive testing myself. Nothing is going to penetrate this. Interestingly, it changes phases when you’re attempting to penetrate it; liquid then back to solid around the bullet.”

“I,” John started, “This is,” he paused again and shook his head.

“There are more than the pink,” Sherlock assured him, as though John might have been concerned about the colour. “I’m having them specially made for her, this is just the first. I just don’t think we can chance it-”

John cut him off wrapping the hand still holding the jacket around Sherlock’s neck and drawing his mouth down to his. “You’re fantastic,” John said, drawing back from him minutely. Rosie’s hands had clasped in Sherlock’s suit coat instead and they were momentarily stuck on one another as they tried to separate.

Sherlock chuckled and wrapped Rosie’s hand in his, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. “Right,” Sherlock said, placing Rosie's hand on John’s chest. “We need to get going. But listen, if she comes with us, she stays in one of our arms the entire time. There’s no putting her down, no letting her walk, no open windows, no one is babysitting at the crime scene.”

“Yes,” John agreed, “Yes, of course.” He got Rosie into her coat, marveling at the genius of the man beside him, marveling at his love and care for Rosie.

“Ours are next, by the way,” Sherlock said as he put his coat on. “They’ll be taken into the shop in the next few months.”

“I just can’t believe you’ve done all of this,” John said.

“It’s a necessary precaution,” Sherlock assured him as he flagged down a cab. The crime scene wasn’t more than three minutes away by car, which was a bit unsettling. When they arrived, Sherlock looked at John, “Don’t forget, one of us has her the entire time. Stay back from windows, and don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” John said and he might have been irritated were it not for the fact that Sherlock just wanted to keep them safe. “It’s going to be fine,” John promised.

Sherlock nodded once and climbed out of the cab, stalking toward the warehouse with John at his side. After the initial exasperation at having Rosie there, Lestrade let the three of them into the room. Rosie was quiet as a mouse, her head resting against John’s shoulder as she chewed on her blanket. Sherlock examined the body and looked around the room before standing up again. Rosie watched his every move, tracking his progress around the crime scene and the woman's body with her eyes.

“John?” Sherlock asked, looking over at him and reaching out for Rosie as though it was the most natural thing in the world. (And it was, John supposed.)

John went over to the body and examined her, listening to Sherlock murmuring soft words that he couldn’t quite make out to Rosie. She giggled and John glanced over at the two of them; Sherlock had taken her over to a corner away from the body and was talking to her with their foreheads pressed together and she was giggling at him, her fingers wrapped in his shirt. John couldn’t help but smile before he went back to examining the dead woman.

He stood up, “It wasn’t asphyxiation,” John said. Sherlock turned back to him and John lifted Rosie out of his arms to let Sherlock go back to the body. “She was dead before they put the body here; probably poison, if I had to guess. I think the bag over the head was for something else. Maybe a way to keep from losing hair and contaminating however they transported her here?” John wondered aloud.

Sherlock hummed at him, "Transported her here," he repeated, looking at John and then at the body.  "What make you think she was transported here postmortem?"

"Dunno," John said, "It just makes more sense doesn't it?  Why transport someone here when they're still alive and risk being seen?"

"Why indeed?" Sherlock murmured before he turned and went back to the body, squatting beside her and pressing his palms together in front of his mouth.

“Daddy,” Rosie whimpered.

John bounced her on his hip and looked at her, “I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her curls.

Her bottom lip protruded and John knew that look, he knew an oncoming storm when he saw one. “It’s alright,” he said, drawing her into his chest and rocking her, pressing another kiss to her head and mentally begging her to hold it together for a little while longer.

“Daddy,” she screeched, and then came the tears in the type of meltdown that every parent dreads from an eighteen month old.

“Shh,” John soothed, rocking his body, “It’s alright.” She wanted nothing to do with his soothing, “Sherlock,” John called, hating to disturb the other man when he was thinking but wanting him to know where they were going. “We’re going out for a walk.”

Sherlock nodded and John moved toward the doorway but was distressed to find that the further they got from the crime scene the louder she wailed. “No,” she cried. “No, no. Daddy,” she wailed.

“What?” John murmured, looking at the tear stained face of his daughter, “What do you want, sweetheart?” He offered her snacks, she took a handful of cheerios and John felt hopeful but she proceeded to throw them to the floor with a screech. He offered her a toy, her blanket, a drink of juice; literally everything he had with them in the diaper bag. Everything he attempted to give her was met by what must be her favourite word, ‘No.’

“Alright,” John said, taking a deep breath, he couldn’t do this here. He couldn’t stand outside of the warehouse and try to placate her. There was nothing for it, they had to go home. He’d given Sherlock his medical opinion he hardly needed him anymore anyway.

Mind made up he trotted back inside, making vague hushing noises to Rosie and apologizing to the people working the crime scene, “Sorry, sorry. We’re leaving in just a minute,” he promised.

“Sherlock,” he called when they came back into the room, “We’re going to go-”

But as soon as Rosie caught sight of Sherlock her arms stretched out and she wailed, reaching for the other man, “Daddy,” she cried. “Pease, daddy.”

Sherlock and John stared at each other and at that moment both of them realized exactly what Rosie wanted. She wanted Sherlock.

He was on his feet in a moment and across the room, he reached out and took her from John and she snuggled under his chin sniffling. “My name is Sherlock,” Sherlock corrected her, as though she could understand him. He was always talking to her that way, like she was an adult and had any idea what he was saying to her. “Sherlock,” he repeated, rocking her gently, “That’s daddy,” he said, pointing at John, “I'm not daddy.”

“Daddy,” she murmured back and John couldn’t help but laugh.

Sherlock looked up at him then, looking completely stricken, “I can’t-” he started, “I don’t,” he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

John shrugged it didn't matter to him that Rosie had wanted Sherlock, “Don’t be,” he said easily, honestly just relieved that Rosie had stopped screaming; he didn’t care that Sherlock was all she’d wanted in the first place, why did it matter what it took to calm her down as long as she was calmed? “Can you do whatever you need to do here with her or do you want me to take her home?”

“No,” Sherlock said, his eyes piercing through John and his brow furrowed, “It’s fine,” he murmured but he was lost in his mind.

“Right,” John said uncertainly, he didn’t know why Sherlock was staring at him like that. “Sherlock, I don’t care that she wanted you to hold her instead of me,” John said gently, hoping to put the other man’s mind at ease. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and then he shook his head as if to clear it and turned around.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock called, holding the back of Rosie’s head with his hand as he squatted down and looked at the body for one more moment, lifting the dead woman’s hand in his to inspect her nails.

When the Detective Inspector returned to the room he cocked his head at Sherlock holding Rosie and looked over at John. John shrugged, “You know how it is when your toddler wants something.” John shook his head and grinned, “I’ll give her anything if she’ll stop crying. Sherlock happened to be that thing she wanted.”

“Huh,” Greg said.

“Yes, it’s all quite fascinating,” Sherlock replied snarkily, drawing both of their attentions back to him. “But if we could get back to the woman who has been brutally murdered,” he said glaring at Lestrade.

Greg made a vague gesture, “Explain away.”

It was all interesting, John was sure, and Sherlock had been brilliant like he always was, John was equally sure of this. But truth be told he hadn’t listened to a word the other man said. He was too preoccupied watching the way his two year old clung to Sherlock like he was her whole world, rubbing the top button on Sherlock’s shirt between her fingers and John knew just how she felt. Like Sherlock Holmes was the sun and he was just in perpetual orbit around the man.

And he was sure she looked at him like that, sure she clung to him like that. She was a very affectionate child and he had no doubt that she was equally attached to him but he loved to see her like this with Sherlock. He loved that she saw him as much a part of their family as John did. Sherlock would die for them without hesitation; Sherlock loved the two of them so much and he saw them as his family but sometimes John doubted that Sherlock knew they saw him the same way. Sometimes he wondered if the other man thought he loved them more than they loved him. But in moments like these John hoped he knew they loved him just as much.

“John,” Sherlock said, snapping his fingers at him and drawing John back to the conversation at hand.

“Yes?” John responded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Are you ready to go home or did you want to stay here with the dead woman?”

John laughed, his heart feeling light, “I’m ready,” he said. They walked outside and John took Sherlock’s hand not occupied with holding Rosie in his. He gave it a squeeze, “You’re brilliant,” John said.

“You didn’t listen to a single deduction I made,” Sherlock grumbled but his hand gave John’s a light squeeze in return.

John laughed, “Well, if you weren’t brilliant we’d still be milling about that place with all of those other people instead of going home to have dinner.”

“John,” Sherlock started, an apologetic note in his voice.

John squeezed his hand, “I really don’t care Sherlock,” he assured him. “She’s two, I’m not going to be offended that she wanted you to hold her instead of me. Now please stop worrying about it.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his mouth opened to speak and John kissed him. He stilled and pressed his lips softly to Sherlock’s, once, twice, and a third time for good measure. “I love you,” John said softly. “And so does Rosie.”

Sherlock blinked at him, then nodded once. They started walking again and Sherlock said, “I love both of you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a point of interest, the bulletproof fabric I wrote about is an actual thing developed by MIT and it is 100% part of my head cannon now that after Mary was shot he remade John and Rosie's jackets to be lined with this awesome stuff. 
> 
> Here's a link to an article in case you are curious:  
> http://news.mit.edu/2012/bullet-stopping-nanostructured-material-1107


	12. Chapter 12

 John couldn’t be happier, his life seemed like a dream and everything had to come together beautifully.

After he put his daughter to bed he came back downstairs to find Sherlock had put on some music and poured them both a glass of wine. He was turned facing the window, staring out at Baker Street and John slipped up behind him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. “What are you thinking about?”John whispered as he swayed their bodies in time to the music.

Sherlock’s hands slipped down to cover John’s and he leaned back against John and rocked with him. “A little of this and a little of that. You mostly.”

“Mostly?” John teased.

“I think we need to find a new daycare for Rosie,” Sherlock murmured, removing John’s arms from his waist and turning to face John then.

John took Sherlock’s left hand in his right and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, drawing him closer. Sherlock gave a small, pleased smile and ducked his head even as he wrapped a hand around John’s shoulder and gave his other hand a squeeze. John loved that sweet little smile, he made a mental note to dance with the other man more often. He leaned in and stole a kiss, “Why is that?”

“Because the staff are idiots,” Sherlock replied derisively.

“Sherlock, this is the best daycare in the area,” John said with a chuckle. “Admit it, you just don’t like having her there instead of here.”

Sherlock huffed, “That’s beside the point, John-”

“She only goes one day a week,” John said, leaning in and kissing the other man again. “We agreed it’s what best to help her get socialized. It’s good for her to play with other kids, make friends,” John prompted, reminding Sherlock about their conversation. “And it gives you a day to experiment and me a day to clean.”

“But John,” Sherlock whinged, “They’re idiots. Shouldn't she be going somewhere that is giving her the opportunity to learn and explore?”

“That’s what play based learning is,” John said with a laugh. “She’s learning all sorts of things from playing with blocks and dolls. Besides, why set the precedent that she needs to go to posh, fancy schools?”

"John, she is more intelligent than most of the adults in that room,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” John said giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze. “They’re not Public school but they’re not stupid.

“One of them said, ‘I just seen that bear,’ the other day. It grates on my nerves to hear them.”

John laughed, “She likes it there.” John spun Sherlock, making the other man giggle before he drew him back in and dipped him. Sherlock grinned up at him and John leaned in to kiss him. When he pulled the other man back up he started swaying again before he added, “Besides, our daughter is not going to public school.”

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked, staring at John in disbelief.

John rolled his eyes, “Don’t sound so appalled, I said ‘Our daughter is not going to Public school,’ those schools are so pretentious. And I’ll bet you learned to smoke in Public School, too.”

“Our daughter?” Sherlock murmured softly, still staring at John incomprehensibly.

“Yes,” John said in exasperation, “Good grief, are you drunk? Our daughter is not going to public school. She isn’t going to be spoiled and she isn’t going to live somewhere that’s not with us. We are going to raise her not some stupid school. And I got a perfectly good education, thank you very much. At least I know that the earth goes around the sun.”

“John, shut up about the school and shut up about the bloody sun. No one gives a damn. You are calling her _Our_ daughter.”

And at that moment John understood what Sherlock had been perplexed about. He hadn't been upset that Rosie had wanted him instead of John at the crime scene, he'd worried that she was calling him Daddy. He looked down at his feet and bit his lip, he’d been thinking of Rosie that way for a while now. They shared all of the responsibilities and everyone knew Sherlock at the daycare and the parent groups. “Rosie loves you like a father,” he murmured softly. “To be honest, I’ve just been thinking of you as a partner in raising her since we moved back in. You share the responsibilities at your own insistence. Sorry, I’ve overstepped, I just-”

“No,” Sherlock said cutting him off. “No. Stop apologizing, John, I love it.”

"You do?" John asked uncertainly. "It's a lot and we probably should have talked about it first-"

Sherlock interrupted him with a sound kiss, his fingers clutching at John’s face. "I love you," he gasped, his eyes remained closed and he leaned his forehead against John’s. He allowed his fingers to slide down John’s neck before wrapping in the shoulders of John jumper. "And I love Rosie. I love our lives together." He kissed John again. "I never thought I'd have a family."

John kissed him back, his heart feeling full enough that it could have burst. "I will never understand how people believe you're a sociopath."

"I am," Sherlock said breathlessly.

"No, you're not. You have a heart the size of London," John murmured. "You just try to hide it."

"I didn't before you," Sherlock said, leaning into John again and tucking his nose into the crook of John’s neck.

John took his hand in his and started dancing again. "Yes you did, you'd just forgotten how to use it." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple.

“John?” Sherlock murmured against John’s neck where his head was resting.

“Mhmm?” John replied, stroking his hand up and down Sherlock’s back, tracing the musculature under the shirt.

“I need you to touch me,” he whispered.

John grinned against the other man’s skin and traced his fingers along Sherlock’s spine. “I am touching you.”

“No,” Sherlock whined and his entire body arched against John’s, “Everywhere. I need you to touch my skin, I need to feel your skin on mine. Please,” he added with a whisper.

“I love you,” John said with a groan his own cock thickening inside of his trousers. He pressed Sherlock backwards until they had almost reached the couch and then he undid the buttons on the other man’s shirt, kissing and liking at the skin he displayed.

Sherlock groaned and his hands were at John’s trousers, undoing the button and the zip and shoving them down John’s thighs.

“Feeling impatient, are we?” John asked, as he pushed the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

“Usually,” Sherlock replied, as he yanked John’s jumper up over his arms. John reached out and steadied himself by grabbing Sherlock’s hips as Sherlock tugged his jumper off his head.

Once his head was freed, John reached for Sherlock’s trousers and slid them down his thighs.

“Have you ever wondered what having sex on the coffee table might be like?” Sherlock asked inquisitively.

John burst out laughing, “Maybe?” he replied, thinking that the truth was that he’d once fucked Sherlock over the coffee table in his head when he was grieving. What he said was, “Knowing my mind, probably.”

“Do you want to try it?” Sherlock asked raising his eyebrow and pressing John back toward the coffee table.

John laughed, “The couch is right there. Or we could do it in the chair,” John pointed out, thinking the floor was awfully hard on his knees.

But Sherlock pouted at him and John gave in, of course he did. “On your knees, then,” he said.

Sherlock grinned at him and pressed a kiss to John’s lips before moving to kneel beside the table and lay his chest and stomach across it. John took a moment to appreciate Sherlock’s body before moving to grab the lube from the end table drawer. They’d have to take it out of there when Rosie got a little older. John knelt beside the other man and stroked his hands over Sherlock’s back, “You have to be quiet, though,” John murmured. “There aren’t enough doors between us and Rosie out here and I will kill you if I’m inside of you and you wake her up.”

Sherlock nodded, turning his head to rest his cheek on the table and looking at John. John kissed his spine as he uncapped the lube and spread some on his fingers, “You are beautiful,” John murmured as he eased his fingers between Sherlock’s buttocks and circled that delicate pucker of flesh.

Sherlock sighed and arched his body back against John, “Don’t compliment me,” he murmured.

“Why?” John asked, thinking surely they were past all of that, he’d told Sherlock how beautiful and perfect and gorgeous he was and any other variation thereof enough times over the past few weeks that he must have worn down Sherlock’s resistance. “You are.”

Sherlock groaned, “Because I have no control over my vocal mechanism when you compliment me.”

At that John’s lips quirked into a grin, “Why didn’t you tell me you have a praise kink?”

“It’s not a kink,” Sherlock said, but the sharpness in his voice was dulled by the sigh escaping his lips as John’s fingers trailed lower to massage his perineum. “And surely, your powers of deduction aren't so poor that you haven’t realized the effect your words have on me. Isn’t that why you keep repeating them?”

“No,” John said honestly. He trailed his fingers back up to circle Sherlock’s hole once more. “I’m constantly repeating them because they’re true. And I didn’t realize it was the words, I thought you were just sensitive. It’s not as though I’ve ever made love to you without speaking just to compare the results.”

“Made love to me,” Sherlock murmured under his breath.

“Don’t mock me,” John said. “It is making love to you,” he defended, his fingers continuing to trail over his lover's hole. “There’s something different about it than just sex. So much more tenderness and devotion. So much more, period,” John muttered.

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” Sherlock said softly, looking over his shoulder at John. “The sentiment is,” he paused as though searching for the right word, “Touching, I suppose. It makes me feel equally sentimental.”

John gave him a pleased grin, “Oh good.”

“John?” Sherlock murmured.

“Hmm?” John asked.

“Can you put your fingers inside of me now?” Sherlock asked, his eyes pleading.

“I love your eyes, they’re so expressive,” John said with a chuckle as he gently pressed his forefinger into Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock’s body clenched and relaxed around his finger and John groaned. “That’s it,” he whispered, circling Sherlock’s rim once more and relaxing it before pressing in again. “Beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“John,” Sherlock groaned in reproach.

“I’m sorry,” John said. He wasn’t.

“No you’re not,” Sherlock said, whimpering as John began to thrust his finger in and out of Sherlock’s hole.

“I’m not,” John agreed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You will be if I wake up your daughter.”

“Our daughter,” John corrected.

“Our daughter,” Sherlock repeated, his voice soft and full of wonder.

“I love you,” John murmured, because he really did. He wouldn’t have ever imagined that Sherlock could be this sweet and soft, but the man had clearly been starved for physical affection his entire life.

“I,” Sherlock started but interrupted himself as John stroked his inner walls with his finger, “Oh, John, yes,” he begged, his voice soft but fervent. “I love you, too.”

John pressed his finger in and bent it toward Sherlock’s prostate, he couldn’t quite reach it, but that didn’t seem to matter. Sherlock whimpered and his hips thrust back in search of something more. “John,” he begged, a soft oh sound escaping his mouth after John’s name.

“You’re perfect like this,” John said softly, using his right hand to dribble a bit of lube on his left middle finger. “So soft and sweet.”

Sherlock groaned, “John,” he begged, his voice coming out higher and tighter than it normally did.

“I just love the way you feel,” John murmured, and he might be pressing his luck a bit, but he slipped his second finger in along with the first as he said, “You’re incredible.”

Sherlock let out a soft, “Uhhn,” sound that was far higher pitched and breathier than any sound John had ever heard come from his mouth.

“Oh, yes,” John murmured, rubbing both fingers in a circle and stretching Sherlock’s rim. “Yes,” he whispered breathily as Sherlock’s hole clenched around him. “Fuck, you’re fantastic.”

“John,” Sherlock said desperately. “What part of do not compliment me are you failing to understand?"

“Oh,” John said softly, placing a kiss on Sherlock’s rump just above his fingers and making Sherlock whimper again. “I understood perfectly. And the first time was an accident but then the sound you made trying to be quiet was absolutely stunning,” John murmured, scissoring his fingers in Sherlock’s hole. “So I decided I wanted to hear that again.”

“Why are you torturing me?” Sherlock asked through a groan.

“Because you enjoy it so much,” John said easily. He let his tongue trail down the crease between Sherlock’s buttocks and flick for a moment around his fingers, barely pressing inside.

“Ahh,” Sherlock whined, “John.”

John drew back, “You’re so responsive,” he murmured. “It must be a product of your incredible mind,” John said. “It must be. Your brain must process everything differently, heighten sensations because you are always so hyper aware of the things happening around you.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded.

John scissored his fingers and pressed in a third, Sherlock exhaled on an ahh, his voice rising higher. “Like that noise,” John murmured, “Yes, that one,” he said as he thrust his fingers inside Sherlock's’ hole and Sherlock made it again. “It’s perfect. I could listen to those soft, desperate sounds all night. In fact I might.”

Sherlock whimpered and his hips stuttered back toward John.

“What do you think?” John asked softly. “Would you like me to stretch you and fuck you with my fingers and my cock all night long?” Sherlock whimpered desperately. “Your knees would get tired, but that’s okay, I could lay you out across the carpet,” John whispered.”Put a pillow under your hips to avoid chafing and because it’s soft enough that it wouldn’t give you enough friction to make you come. And then I would spread you apart and slip my fingers back inside of you again.” John mirrored his words with his fingers, “I’d press them inside of you over and over, stretching you until it didn’t even feel like a stretch anymore, until you were spread wide open and gaping. And still I’d keep on, I’d rub your prostate,” John said, brushing his fingers over that sensitive bundle of nerves teasingly lightly. Sherlock cried out, his fingers clenching hard around the table and his bottom lip clenched tightly between his teeth.

“And then,” John whispered, “I’d hold my fingers still,” Sherlock’s hips rocked helplessly against his hand. “I’d let your hips try to move, let you try to fuck yourself on my fingers. And I’d just watch because your body is positively stunning to watch move. It’s like a living work of art.”

“John, please,” Sherlock whimpered. “Put your cock in me.”

“Not yet,” John said softly. “You’re doing so well, love,” he murmured. “So perfectly. You’ve been so quiet, so patient. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

“And then,” John continued, “I would compliment you. I’d tell you you were beautiful, I’d tell you that there is nothing I enjoy more than watching the way your body and your mind work. I would tell you that I positively adore you, that I could watch you this way for hours.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded, his voice high and tight. “Please I need you to put your cock inside of me. I need you to touch me. Please, I need you.”

John groaned and pressed a row of kisses to Sherlock’s spine, “You are such perfection. I’ll never understand how you want me.”

“I want you in every conceivable way,” Sherlock begged. “Please, John, anything, everything. Please. Fill me.”

John groaned and sucked a bruise into Sherlock’s shoulder. “How can I deny you anything?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, “But here we are and I am most certainly being denied.”

“You’re not being denied,” John retorted, rubbing his fingers over Sherlock’s prostate and watching his body arch. “I am paying every bit of attention I possess to you and I will give you everything you ask of me.”

“Good,” Sherlock said whimpering as John fingers stretched his hole even wider. “Please,” he begged. “Please.”

“You know I love that word coming out of your mouth,” John murmured, his fingers thrusting a tiny bit harder.

“It’s not doing me much good, is it?” Sherlock whinged.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” John said as he dribbled a bit more lube on his pinkie. “It might be,” he pressed his pinkie against Sherlock’s entrance, not pushing in yet, just making his finger’s presence known.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, his entire body freezing completely. “Oh, John,” he whispered. “I,” he broke off, a tiny moan escaping his throat. “Yes,” he begged, “Oh, please.”

They should do this all the time, John thought dazedly. When Sherlock couldn’t make noise he was a thousand times more sensitive. John was dizzy with the way he wanted the other man, with the thoughts of the pleasure he wanted to give to him.

“John,” Sherlock whimpered, his body strung tight as bow.

“Shh,” John soothed. “Relax.” He rubbed his unoccupied hand over Sherlock’s back. “That’s it, sweetheart. Deep breath,” John murmured and as Sherlock breathed in John pressed his fourth finger in.

“Oh,” Sherlock moaned, his voice still soft but so tense.

“That’s perfect sweetheart, look at you, so good for me,” John praised, stroking his free hand over Sherlock’s back. “So beautiful, so quiet; you’re doing so, so well, my love.” John thrust his fingers, reaching to brush over Sherlock's prostate on every pass of his fingers in and out. He rubbed his right hand over the other man’s perineum and Sherlock shuddered around his fingers, his entire body jerking.

“John,” Sherlock begged, his voice tight. “Oh, please,” he moaned desperately.

John let his fingers twist in and out of Sherlock’s body a few more times because the noises he made truly were stunning, before he finally pulled them out.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Yes, John,” he whispered. “Please, please.”

“Shh,” John soothed, slicking up his cock and leaning against Sherlock’s back with his chest. “That’s it,” he murmured when Sherlock stilled and took a deep, audible breath. “So perfect,” John whispered.

“You’re killing me,” Sherlock groaned. “I can’t take it.”

“You’re alright,” John assured him. “You’re going to feel so good, I promise. I’ll take care of you, darling.”

“Promises, promises,” Sherlock grumbled but he was so desperate sounding it was without any real heat.

“Have I ever made you a promise I didn’t keep?” John teased, lining his cock up with Sherlock’s hole and rubbing his head over it.

Sherlock shook his head, “No, but it does often take you longer than I might like.”

“Patience is a beautiful thing,” John murmured. “And not just because it will in general make your life easier, but because delayed gratification is the sweetest sort of gratification,” John said as he slowly pressed his cock into Sherlock’s body. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Sherlock moaned, “Oh, yes. Please, please.”

John chuckled, sure that Sherlock hadn't even heard his question. “You’re incredible,” John murmured softly. “I just love the way you move and the way you moan and whimper. I could do this forever.” John kissed the other man’s neck, “Tell me I can keep you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock begged. “Yes, for ever.”

“You’re perfect like this,” John whispered. “I could get you to agree to anything this way,” John said softly, pressing his cock inside of Sherlock’s body fully.

“But you wouldn’t,” Sherlock said on an exhale. “It’s why I can let myself go and just stop working so hard.” Sherlock turned and looked over his shoulder at John as best he could. “I trust you implicitly. I trust you better than I trust my own self.”

“I love it when you say things like that,” John groaned, letting his forehead tilt forward to land on Sherlock’s back.

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “It’s why I say them aloud instead of just letting them rot away in my subconscious. You’ve ruined my mind John Watson.”

“No I haven’t,” John said with a chuckle. “Look how brilliantly you solved that murder today.”

“You could ask me the square root of 144 and I wouldn’t know the answer right now.”

“It’s 12,” John murmured, but he didn’t give Sherlock a chance to respond as he started to draw his hips back again. He kept up this excruciatingly slow pace, listening to the way Sherlock whimpered and groaned as John thrust and rolled his hips. Then John decided to surprise the other man, thinking a sharp jab to his prostate would be greatly appreciated. So he did just that, angling his hips and thrusting quickly, but it had a rather unintended consequence.

“Ow,” Sherlock blurted. “Fuck, ouch.”

“What’s wrong?” John asked, feeling slightly panicked. ‘Ow’ was never a good sign.

“Fucking table,” Sherlock said. “It feels like it broke my hip,” he groaned, his hand leaving it’s post grasping the table to rub at his hipbone.

“Sorry,” John said, wincing, he hadn’t really thought of that issue.

“No, I’m sorry,” Sherlock grumbled, “Just when you decided to properly fuck me.”

John laughed, “Oh, it wasn’t going to be a continuous thing. It was just a tease.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Sherlock grumbled.

John kissed his neck, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s move away from the coffee table.” John pulled out and Sherlock groaned pitifully. “I know,” John soothed, “I’m sorry. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. Do you want to move up to the sofa, move to the chair? We can go get in bed?” John offered, “Or I can lay a blanket out by the fire.” John grinned then as Sherlock turned to face him, “You’d be beautiful by the fire, the warm glow painting your skin, the light catching the bits of red in your hair, the way your eyes always sparkle in the fire.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, “You’re beautiful.”

“Fire,” Sherlock mumbled, a flush tainting his cheeks. Honestly, it made John’s heart swell to know how Sherlock loved to be complemented, he resolved to complement the other man all the more, to tell Sherlock everyday how loved and cherished he was.

John pressed another soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips before standing up to grab a blanket off the back of his chair. He laid it out in front of the fire and grabbed a pillow off of the couch and tossed it down on the blanket. Sherlock was still sitting on the floor where John had left him, just watching John’s movements.

John took Sherlock’s hand in his and pulled him to his feet, kissing his lips for a long moment until Sherlock was all but swaying. “Lie down.”

Sherlock nodded and did as John asked. John went over and switched off the lights and grabbed a second blanket from the back of the couch for later. He tossed the second blanket off to the side and stared down at his lover for a long moment.

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed pink under John’s gaze and his thighs closed demurely, covering himself.

“You’re so beautiful,” John murmured for the thousandth time before lying down and covering Sherlock’s body with his own.

Sherlock’s arms immediately wrapped around John’s neck and he drew John’s mouth to his. They kissed for a long moment, their hips rolling gently against one another, suddenly it seemed neither of them were in a hurry, Sherlock’s desire seemed to have been abated by the change in positions and John had never been in a hurry to begin with. “This is nice,” John whispered when they drew apart to catch their breath.

Sherlock nodded, “But I’m ready,” he pleaded.

John drew back and knelt between Sherlock’s hips, lifting them as he sat back on his haunches and drawing Sherlock’s arse against his pelvis.

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered at the change in position and possibly at the way John was splaying his body.

“You are perfection,” John murmured, angling his hips just right so he could slide back into Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock arched against him but couldn’t really do much more from the position he was in to control the speed or depth.

“Look how beautiful you are,” John whispered, thrusting into Sherlock’s body again, and it was true, the firelight offset Sherlock’s colouring just perfectly. “And you feel perfect, too. So tight and hot and wet,” John groaned and held Sherlock’s hips so he could press just a little harder.

Sherlock arched, his torso stretching up toward the top of the blanket and his head tilting back to expose his neck. John wanted desperately to taste that skin, so he moved again, rocking forward so that he could lay his body along Sherlock’s, his lips falling straight to his torso and working his way up to the other man's neck. Sherlock gasped softly and tilted his head back even further, his fingers coming up to thread in John’s hair and press his lips more firmly to his skin. “John please,” he whispered, his legs wrapped around John's waist and he arched up into John.

And at his behest, John sucked a mark into Sherlock’s neck, they didn’t do anything above the collar usually, but once in awhile someone got carried away or someone wanted to be possessed and claimed, it always made John giddy when Sherlock wanted that.

Sherlock arched and groaned, pressing into John’s mouth and hissing, “Yes,” at him.

John laved his tongue over the mark he’d made before he drew back and blew his breath over it. “You’re a wonder,” John murmured, his hips rocking in and out of Sherlock’s body with care. “I love you like this,” John murmured. “I love how soft you are, how sweet and gentle. I love the way you crave me, the way you seem to demand closeness, I'd give you anything.”

“John,” Sherlock whimpered, wrapping his legs around John’s waist and arching into him. “Please,” Sherlock whispered, wrapping John’s face in his hands and leaning up to kiss him. “Give me everything, let me be selfish.”

“Always,” John promised, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s as his arms slid under Sherlock’s shoulders to hold him close. “It’s not selfish,” John whispered, leaning in closer to Sherlock so he could suck at the sensitive skin behind Sherlock’s ear. “It’s all I want.”

Sherlock whimpered and his arms wrapped around John’s shoulders, he buried his face in John’s neck and his hips thrust up into John.

“I love you like this,” John whispered again, “You’re stunning.” He pulled back slightly so he could kiss Sherlock’s lips even as his hands slid down Sherlock’s sides and gripped his hips to hold him steady as he thrust a bit harder. Sherlock arched, his head tilting back against the pillow as he exposed the column of his neck to John’s lips again. John kissed and licked at that skin before leaning back and murmuring, “I love how open you are, how vulnerable you’re willing to be with me. I love the way you whimper and gasp, I love the soft noises you make when I touch you. I love the trust you give me, the belief that I will take care of you, even when I tease you and it seems like we’ll never get there.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

“I love that this is mine, and mine alone. I love that there is no one else who has ever been allowed to touch you this way, to hold you this way,” at his own words, at the thoughts that prompted them, John’s own hips began to speed up a bit, his heart hammering in ecstasy. “I can’t imagine how out of the thousands of choices you’ve had that you’ve chosen me.”

Sherlock tilted his head back down to look at John, his eyes soft. His left hand slid up John’s side and he cupped his cheek, “There was never a choice,” he whispered. “There’s only ever been you.”

“I love that,” John said. “It makes me terrible, I know, but I love that I am the only person you’ve ever loved. I love that I am the only one to experience you this way.” John shuddered and he dropped his head to Sherlock’s neck as he thrust sharply a few times before taking a deep breath and reining himself back in again. He sat up, “It makes me want to give you everything,” he kissed him. “Let me give you everything,” he begged.

Sherlock nodded, clearly at a loss for words.

John kissed him then, long and slow and deep, “I love you,” he moaned against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock clenched his fingers in John muscles and let out a soft breathy moan, “I love you, too,” he whispered. Then he opened his eyes and searched John’s, “I love you so much.”

John kissed him again, and his hands dug into Sherlock’s hips, lifting them a bit and angling them as he thrust.

Sherlock moaned, a soft, high whimpering moan that John positively adored, “There,” Sherlock begged, his legs wrapping themselves higher around John's torso to keep his hips angled better.

“Yes,” John agreed, moving his hips just a touch faster because he couldn’t help himself.

“Ahh,” Sherlock cried softly, clasping his bottom lip between his lips and clamping his eyes shut tight. After a few more thrusts his eyes opened again, “John,” he whispered desperately. “I’m going to come,” he said and then immediately went back to biting his lip.

“Just a few minutes longer,” John murmured. “Hold on,” he begged.

Sherlock nodded and his fingers clenched in John’s shoulders.

“You’re perfect,” John whispered and he sped up his thrusts, Sherlock’s legs clenched harder around his body and his hole clenched down tighter on John’s cock.

“John,” Sherlock whimpered desperately, “Please come.” He gasped and let out a soft moan that sounded almost like pain, “Please.”

His muscles spasmed and John was lost, spilling inside of Sherlock’s body and Sherlock came too, his muscles clamping down around John and his limbs clamping John’s body close to him. “John,” he whispered.

John reached between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around the other man’s cock, stroking it solidly a few times.

Sherlock groaned then he whispered John’s name again as his hole spasmed and his cock twitched in his hand, “John, John, John,” he murmured.

When they were both spent, John released his grip on Sherlock’s cock and his arms burrowed under Sherlock’s body holding the other man close and burying his nose in Sherlock’s neck, his eyes prickling with tears.

Sherlock stroked his hands through John’s sweat dampened hair and held him close, turning his head to press soft kisses to the skin he could reach along John’s cheek and neck. “I love you, too,” he whispered softly and John wondered if perhaps he’d said the words on repeat in his mind aloud.

Sherlock held him and soothed him until both of their breathing had evened out and their bodies had stopped trembling, the sweat cooling on their skin. “Alright,” Sherlock murmured softly, “I’m too old for this.”

“What?” John asked, his forehead wrinkling as he drew back to look at Sherlock’s face. “Sex?”

“Yes, sex,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “That was rather short lived. Sorry, John, I know we’ve only been in this physical relationship for the past 26 days but I’m done with the sex part. It’s mind blowingly fantastic and all but I’m just too old for it.”

“Twenty six days, huh?” John murmured. “But who’s been counting?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t be a prat.”

“Says the man ruining the afterglow with his sarcasm,” John retorted.

Sherlock’s eyes softened, “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” John kissed him quickly, “I’m being sensitive. Tell me what you’re getting too old for.”

“Sex on the floor,” Sherlock said. “My hips and back are killing me.”

“Oh,” John murmured, “Well it probably doesn’t help that I’m lying on top of you and crushing your delicate self into the floor.” With a groan he pulled out of Sherlock and moved to stand. He offered his hand to Sherlock and dragged him up.

“I’m not delicate,” Sherlock told him with a groan.

“You are,” John said. “Your entire structure is delicate, narrow frame, tall and willowy, slender.” John stroked his fingers over Sherlock’s cheeks, “You’re stunning.”

Sherlock leaned in and wrapped his arms around John’s waist and kissed him for a long moment.

John wrapped his own arms around Sherlock’s back, “So a praise kink, huh?” he murmured.

Sherlock huffed, “It’s not a kink, John.”

John grinned, “You’ve been full of lovely surprises.” He pressed a kiss to the other man’s lips before he released him from his grasp to pick up their glasses of wine. “There’s the hair pulling, too,” John murmured.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips, “I have sensitive follicles.”

“And there’s your affinity for me dirty talking,” John pointed out.

“Maybe I just have an affinity for your voice,” Sherlock said.

“Maybe,” John conceded, “But I think that just adds another thing to our list, don’t you?” He grinned at the other man, “And then there was your exceptionally interesting reaction in which you called me ‘Sir,’ while kneeling at my feet.”

Sherlock blushed, “John,” he started but John moved closer and leaned up to kiss the other man again.

He kissed him softly and wetly, pouring himself into the kiss since his hands were occupied holding the glasses. When he pulled back he murmured, “I love it.” He pecked Sherlock’s lips, “I love you.”

Sherlock hummed, “I love you, too,” he muttered.

John laughed and started walking backwards, drawing Sherlock toward the bathroom. “I’m not sure I’m convinced.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Then you’re an idiot.”

“But practically everyone is,” John assured.

“Quite,” Sherlock murmured.

“Quick shower, then an early night in bed?” John asked, “We can finish these glasses of wine, maybe talk, maybe snog like teenagers?”

Sherlock smiled at him, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am,” John confirmed. “And you’ve chosen me,” he murmured as he set the glasses of wine down on the sink and started the shower.

“I have,” Sherlock said softly. “Not that there was really ever a choice.”

John pulled Sherlock into the shower and closed the curtain before starting to wash the come off their skin. “You said that before,” John murmured, looking up at Sherlock curiously.

“I did,” Sherlock replied. “And I meant it, there’s only ever been you.”

“So when I told you that you should text Irene Adler?” John asked.

“Oh, I wanted to tear my hair out,” Sherlock said frankly. “She’s a lesbian, John. And she’s a woman. She was interested in me and I thought she was interesting but not like that. I’d text her back sometimes when I was lonely and missed you and we’d have dinner and talk about you. She did recommend a trick or two because she said she knew we’d end up together.”

John laughed, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Don’t be, you’d just lost your wife. People always say crazy things in their grief. But I did take your advice though.”

“Did you?” John murmured, leaning in to kiss Sherlock quickly, he loved the taste of the other man when his lips were wet.  
  
Sherlock nodded, “You told me to take a risk, so I took one and held you.”

John kissed him, “That you did. You held me together when my world was falling apart.” He leaned into Sherlock and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, resting his cheek against John’s head.

“I’d like to always do that,” he whispered.

“Me too,” John replied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this one. This is really just a little fluff and smut because I can't help myself. Tension and resolution to follow. Thank you everyone who's followed along with this work!
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Blessings <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one for this work, darlings. I hope you've enjoyed it and that this chapter will bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion. Thanks for sticking around through the grieving for the happier parts! Enjoy!
> 
> Blessings <3

After toweling each other off, they'd gone into their room and they'd stolen kisses as they settled in to bed. John sat with his back pressed against the headboard, the paperback novel he'd been slowly but surely working his way through in his hands. And Sherlock had stared at him calculatingly for a long moment before curling up on his side his with his head in John's lap. John hummed and stroked his finger through his curls. Eventually Sherlock pulled out his phone and started typing away at his blog.

John's eyes skimmed over the pages of his book and he reread the same sentences over and over, but he just couldn't focus. He was so happy. He tilted his book off to the side and looked down at Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock twisted his neck to look up at John. “What?” he asked, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

He wanted this for the rest of his life, wanted this man, this happiness, this completeness, for the rest of his life. John took Sherlock's hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Marry me,” he said. And it wasn’t a question, it was just a statement, casual as anything.

“What?” Sherlock asked, clearly taken off guard. He looked up at John his nose scrunching.

“Marry me,” John said again, equally calmly as though it were the most logical thing in the world because it was. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” he confessed softly. “I can’t imagine I ever will.”

“You said that once before,” Sherlock said with a goofy smile that John couldn’t help but return, “And then you went and got married to a woman.”

And it took a moment for the words to sink in, it took a moment for John to realize what Sherlock was saying, to place the time he’d said those words. It appeared Sherlock had realized at the same moment what he’d just let slip, his face drained of colour and his eyes got huge.

John had never said those words to the real Sherlock; he'd said them to a ghost.

John pulled back out of Sherlock’s arms and out of bed, his heart slammed against his rib cage and his brain screamed about lies.

“John,” Sherlock said pleadingly, sitting up and reaching toward him.

“What?” John said, his voice coming out sharp. “What can you possibly say to me? How long Sherlock? How many times did you come back to see me and pretend to be a ghost? How long did you watch me suffer and struggle?” John scooped up a pair of pajama trousers off the floor and pulled them over his hips. The betrayal was hot in his veins, his blood felt thick, pounding and rushing in his ears.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Sherlock said, his eyes huge, begging John to understand.

“You always have a choice,” John spat.

Sherlock looked wounded by that and John flashed back to the words Sherlock had said twice already this evening; there had never been any choice for him to make, there had only been John. “I came back five times over the course of nine months,” he confessed.

“Five times?” John asked incredulously. “Bloody hell. And you thought what? You just wanted to come back and fuck me to mess me up a little more about all of this? Those were the times you came back, right? You fucked me while you were here?”

Sherlock recoiled from him, from the volatility of his words, “That was never the intention with which I came back.” Sherlock looked away, “It hadn’t even occurred to me that it would be something you’d want until you kissed me.”

John bit the inside of his lip hard enough that he tasted blood, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his eyes widening. He wrapped the sheet around himself and climbed out of bed reaching out to touch John. John jerked back from him and Sherlock winced. He drew his hand back and tucked it under his sheet. “I’d wanted to tell you everything, the night I came back. I’d planned it all out,” he’d whispered. “I was going to tell you that I’d been real, that I’d come back to you to stay. I was going to tell you I hadn’t been able to live without seeing you when I was out in the world fighting. I came back to tell you I loved you,” he whispered, his eyes full of tears.

But tears didn’t phase John, this was complete insanity. How had this even happened? Why was he surprised? “So then what happened? The mustache threw you off and you forgot because you were too busy mocking my face?”

“You were getting engaged,” Sherlock said desperately. “You were getting married to a woman and I wondered if maybe I’d misjudged the situation. I wondered if maybe you’d only said and done those things because you thought it was all happening in your head. And honestly after how furious you were with me, even your friendship was a surprise. I was legitimately shocked that you saw me as your best friend and wanted me to be your best man.”

“So this is my fault?” John spat. “How is it that when the people I love lie to me I get blamed?”

“No,” Sherlock said in exasperation, “It’s not your fault. You had every right to be furious, every right to move on, I told you it was okay. This is all my fault, I just want you to understand why I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t. What could I have hoped to achieve by telling you I’d been real? You were in love with an amazing woman, a far better person than I am. All I wanted was your happiness, all I wanted was to know that you were okay, that you were loved.

“And maybe I would have told you after I’d been shot,” he continued, “Maybe then you were so unhappy that I thought maybe I could have made you as happy as she could. But you were going to have a child and how could I be that selfish? How could I make you choose between me and your wife and child? I didn't want to make you choose.”

John didn’t want to admit it, but it didn’t seem entirely irrational. “And once Mary died?” he prompted.

“Once Mary died,” Sherlock said and then broke off, he looked away at the corner of the room and swallowed, “Once Mary died I didn’t deserve you. Not that I ever have, really, but especially after that. I never thought we’d have that sort of future together. I never imagined that you might love me again. And after that, I was selfish and afraid,” Sherlock said earnestly. “I was afraid that if I told you the truth you would hate me. You’ve been lied to over and over by people who love you. I’d already told the lie, so what did it matter if I never confessed it, what was done was done it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“I’m furious with you,” John said evenly.

“I know,” Sherlock replied.

“So, what exactly was the thought process here? Explain it to me,” John said coldly. “You’re a genius, Sherlock, an actual genius and you’ve made the study of human beings your entire life. You know what sex does to the brain, the bonding hormones it releases in the brain. How did you think coming back was actually going to help me?”

“I came when Mycroft told me you were struggling,” Sherlock said. “When something traumatic happened or when you hadn’t left the house for too long. We had a burner phone system in place just to monitor and communicate about you.”

“Great, so big brother was watching me,” John said, glaring at the other man.

“I only came when things were really bad. And after the first time, I knew you thought you were seeing my ghost anyways. If you were already seeing hallucinations what were a few more?” Sherlock asked. “I couldn’t stand seeing you struggle and do nothing.”

“How did you erase all evidence that you’d been here?” John asked, genuinely perplexed by that. “I’m a light sleeper and I always woke up with the flat exactly the same, in my pajamas just like I had been the night before, nothing was different. You would have had to clean up and you would have had to redress me, how could you possibly manage that while I was sleeping.”

Sherlock looked away and wrapped the sheet tighter around his body, he chewed on his lower lip and John braced himself. That look did not bode well. “You’re not going to like it,” Sherlock whispered.

“I don’t like any of this,” John spat. “It won’t change anything.”

“The water,” Sherlock whispered. “I drugged it.”

“You did what?” John asked, pursing his lips and clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

“Remember at your wedding, I told your guests that I would poison you if I ever decided to kill you? That’s what I did every time I came. I drugged you enough to knock you out so I could clean up the flat and erase all traces of myself.” He looked back at John, “You missed an entire Wednesday once,” he shook his head, “You didn’t even notice.”

“Yes, you said that at my wedding, too. But I wouldn’t have noticed then, would I? I was too busy grieving from the depth of my being for the man I’d loved more than life itself,” he spat.

“It gave your body time to recover and heal after I’d penetrated you,” Sherlock whispered. “It couldn’t feel like it had been more than your own fingers inside of you. You couldn’t know.”

“Why?” John snapped. “Why was it so bloody important to trick me?”

“I wasn’t trying to trick you, I was trying to protect you, I was trying to help you,” Sherlock said, his voice and face pleading with John to understand. “They would have killed you if they knew I was alive, I couldn’t put you at risk that way,”

“It was too much risk for me to know,” John said incredulously, “So you just thought, what the hell, I’ll go back and fuck him even though they, whoever the fuck they are, were probably watching me and Mrs. Hudson.”

“I was exceedingly careful,” Sherlock said. “I would never have come if I thought someone would see me. I would never have let them hurt you.”

“Right,” John said, his voice short and tight. He felt hot, and his chest felt too tight, too small. “How long? How many times did you come to see me?”

“Five,” Sherlock confessed softly. “The first time was three days after I fell, the last time was the night you told me you were letting me go.”

“How am I supposed to just let this go?” John asked in a clipped tone.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. Sherlock paused, unconsciously wrapping the sheet tighter around his body, "I couldn't tell you the truth at the time because they were watching you and they would have killed you if they'd known I was alive. But I hated seeing what I'd done to you and I couldn't leave you to struggle through it alone. And clearly I miscalculated. I thought your forgiveness granted during your mourning would have extended when I was alive."

"I forgave you for killing yourself," John clarified, his voice coming out like steel. "I had to forgive you for lying about it, for letting me mourn so you could have an adventure." John shook his head, "Now you expect me to forgive you for watching me mourn and suffer and struggle and doing nothing about it."

"I couldn't!" Sherlock exclaimed, his own frustration finally boiling over the surface. "What would you have had me do? Tell you and sentence you to death? Sentence Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to death?"

"You should have told me," John said bluntly. "Taken your chances that I could have acted like I was grieving. You could have faked my death too. No one would even have been surprised if I killed myself. It's not as though I didn't think about it."

Sherlock visibly winced like John had hit him, "I know," he said, and then he looked at John. "Do you think it was easy for me?"

John threw his hands in the air, "How should I know? You seemed pretty nonchalant when you flounced into that restaurant."

“I came ‘flouncing,’ as you put it, into the restaurant because I thought I was coming to meet my best friend and the love of my life, I thought I was coming to tell the person who had prayed for just one more miracle that it had been granted. I thought you were going to be happy, I thought I was finally getting my life back. I thought that my dreams, everything I’d ever wanted, were going to come true. Of course I was happy.”

Before John could speak, Sherlock continued, "But if you think that didn't haunt me, if you think that didn't terrify me and break my heart; you're wrong. If you think lying to you wasn't the hardest thing I have ever had to do, you're wrong. If you think I didn't want you by my side every single moment of every single day you're wrong. If you think," Sherlock paused his voice catching and breaking. He took a shuddering breath, "If you think it didn't feel like I was tearing a piece of myself out every time I got out of this bed and left you here, you're wrong."

"But not enough to convince you to tell me the truth," John said stubbornly. "You could have brought me with you."

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned and a hand came up to tug at his curls in frustration. “No I couldn’t,” he said bluntly, all pretense that he was begging for forgiveness gone. “We’re talking in circles. You knowing would have put you and everyone I love in danger. I couldn't risk it, I couldn't put you in danger like that. It was hard enough to get myself over the borders I had to and to get myself in and out of the facilities. And the places I had to go, the things I had to do,” Sherlock paused, his eyes far away for a moment before he shook his head, “It was dangerous. I wasn't even sure my death would have been a lie by the time it was over."

"You came back pretty unscathed for how dangerous you're making it out to be. I've been in dangerous places and I came back with a bullet wound and a limp," John said.

"Unscathed?" Sherlock said incredulously. Then he turned around and let the sheet drop, showing John the raised scars that ran in jagged patterns across this back. "Is this what you called unscarred? Where do you think these came from? Did you think my parents beat me as a child? Did you think I whipped myself like some pious monk? These scars are for you. I was hunted and I was beaten, I was in danger every day. And honestly, I would do it again; I would face the danger, and the pain, and the terror in a heartbeat if it meant I could keep you safe.”

"I-" John started and stopped himself. "What?"

Sherlock pulled the sheet back up and covered himself as he turned around, "Did you think I just went skipping off and waltzed my way through Moriarty's web?” he spat. “Did you think it was easy for me? Did you think me leaving you here knowing what I did to you, knowing how I’d” he paused, clearly searching for the right word, _“Broken_ you was easy for me? What must you think of me, John Watson?"

John said nothing, he wasn’t really sure how to respond when Sherlock framed it this way.

“You said you loved me,” Sherlock said softly. “But how can you when you think I’m such a monster? How can you possibly love someone who would put you through that without a thought? Who could drag you through horrific loss without guilt and shame and grief? How can you love someone who you think would do all of these things to you?” He shook his head and took a deep breath, "I know what I did was terrible," he said, his voice soft. "I don't know how you found it in your heart to forgive me. I know I hurt you and I know you suffered. But I don't know how you can imagine that it was easy for me."

"Come here," John murmured, realizing for the first time how hard this must have been for the other man.

"No," Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No?" John said incredulously. "Why not?"

"Because if I come over there you're going to hit me," Sherlock replied stubbornly.

John laughed and the sound surprised even him, “I can’t even blame you for thinking that.” John moved toward him and Sherlock watched him warily. John took the edges of the sheet in his fingers and drew Sherlock toward him until he could wrap his arms around the other man. “I’m still mad at you,” he murmured. “But I’m sorry for reacting the way I did, I’m sorry for never thinking about you.”

Sherlock leaned his head on John’s shoulder and leaned his body against John’s, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he whispered.

“So the first time you came back was when I was sleeping in your bed, real or not real?” John asked.

“Real,” Sherlock said.

John slipped his fingers under the sheet and stroked his hands along Sherlock’s arms. “The time you gave me a handjob in the loo at the yard, real or not real?”

Sherlock snorted, “Not real. Although that is a fantasy we could live to see happen.”

John thought back trying to remember the other times Sherlock had visited him, “The day that I went around digging into your death; I talked to Molly and countless numbers of your homeless network. You came and made me admit that you weren’t there. Not real, right?”

Sherlock shook his head against John’s shoulder, “Real,” he whispered.

“You lied to me outright,” John said, feeling his heart twist in his chest. “More than that, you made me doubt everything. You made me say it, you made me tell you that I knew you were dead.”

“Mycroft called me in a panic because you were bound and determined to find someone who knew something. He thought you could buy the members of the homeless network.”

“That was awful,” John murmured.

“I know,” Sherlock replied equally softly. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t let you figure it out.”

“You were terrible to me that day,” John remembered. “I cried until I felt sick.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I had to protect you.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to move on, “What about the time you showed up in the doctor’s office I work for, told me you liked Mary? You wanted me to be happy?” John murmured.

“Not real,” Sherlock said. “Although I do in fact want you to be happy and I do like Mary.”

“Were you in the flat before or after my interview? Did you tell me when I was ready to move on that it would be okay?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Not real.”

“What about the time I had the gun in my hand and was thinking very seriously about killing myself?” John murmured and Sherlock shuddered against him. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” Sherlock whispered. “Mycroft called to tell me you hadn’t left the flat in weeks, you weren’t eating according to what Mrs. Hudson told a bridge club. When I got there I almost told you, it was the closest I ever came to telling you I was alive. There would have been no point in anything if you were gone when I got back. I saw the gun in your hand and I’ve never been so afraid as I was in that moment.”

“Did you drop a flower pot on that human trash can?” John asked, remembering that night in the alley.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “You’re damn lucky I was dismantling an arm in London that night and not Belgium or something. Mycroft had said they brought you in to interview you about me. It hadn’t gone well.”

“I was bloody furious with Lestrade,” John muttered. “Logically it makes sense now but at the time he seemed so complacent.”

“You were furious with everyone,” Sherlock replied softly even as he nuzzled his nose against John’s neck like a cat. John loved it when he did that.

He scratched his fingers through his curls but froze when he realized that if Sherlock had been real then, he’d also probably been real that night in his bed, John groaned in mortification. “You let me tie you up and hit you; real or not real? Please tell me it wasn’t real.”

Sherlock hummed low in his throat, “Oh, that was definitely real,” he murmured silkily. “We could revisit that any time you’d like.” Sherlock rubbed his face against John’s neck and collarbone, “How angry are you right now?”

“Really?” John asked incredulously, “That did it for you?”

Sherlock groaned and nodded, “You didn’t hurt me, not really. And you were worried every second that you were, how many times did you ask me if it hurt?” Sherlock asked curiously. “Half a dozen at least.”

“I was asking because I wanted it to hurt you,” John confessed, feeling a great sense of shame wash over him.

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock said softly. “ You would have backed off the moment I said you were actually hurting me you and we both know it. You wanted me to be in pain but you wanted it to be the kind of pain that goes hand in hand with pleasure.”

John sighed and stroked his hands along Sherlock’s back, “You let me stick my cock in you with nothing but lotion.”

Sherlock shrugged, “It was fine, you inspected my body yourself afterward. You know I was fine.”

John shook his head, “I never would have done those things if I’d known you were real.”

“Well, don’t preclude them from our future. As I recall, you also offered to get dressed up in your old army uniform and order me about.”

“I didn't say anything about my old army uniform,” John said with a laugh and a rueful shake of the head.

“Pity, my mind must have supplied that part,” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “I’d be more than willing to give that a go too.”

“You’re incorrigible,” John said.

Sherlock hummed, “It’s entirely your fault.”

“The time you came and told me my hair was sexy because it was greying before you sucked my cock, real or not real?" John asked. "Though we've already gotten to five so it mustn't be real. Pity."

Sherlock pulled back to look at John then, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. “Not real. Although I do love what you’ve done with your hair the past few years, you parted it to the other side, use a little extra product.”

“You told me to part it to the other side, ironically,” John said. “Before my interview.”

“Yes, well it’s good to know I’m always right, even inside of your head.” Sherlock hummed and slipped a hand out of his blanket to stroke his fingers through John’s hair. “I do like the grey, I think,” he murmured softly.

John laughed, “You look the same as the day we met,” he murmured brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“That’s not true,” Sherlock said. “Every time I live with you, I get fat.”

John burst into giggles, “No you don’t. You’re ridiculously scrawny.”

“I’m not, I’ve gained anywhere from ten to twenty pounds when you move in again,” Sherlock said.

“Good,” John said. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I don’t blame you.”

“How recent were those scars when you came home?” John asked suddenly, remembering how Sherlock had winced when he put on his coat the night he’d come back. He’d thought at the time that John had been the one to injure him.

“Ah, quite recent,” Sherlock replied, glancing away then. “The day prior, it was the last leg. I’d gotten a bit careless. I wanted to come home,” he looked up at John, “I’d missed you terribly, believe it or not. And after I’d told you letting go of me was alright visiting you wouldn’t have been fair. And I knew you were alright, I knew you’d gotten through the worst of it.”

“Sherlock I beat the hell out of you that night,” John remembered.

“Yes,” Sherlock said easily and without any trace of grief at the fact.

“I probably split open those wounds on your back,” John said, feeling slightly nauseous.

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock replied. “But it’s alright. I deserved so much worse.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m such a monster,” John murmured his chest feeling tight.

“Look at me,” Sherlock said, reaching out and taking John’s hands. “It’s alright. I forgive you, I never held it against you, any of it. I’m fine, it’s all fine.”

“We’re so ridiculously fucked up,” John murmured.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed gently. “But I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Come back to bed,” Sherlock whispered, looking insecure but hopeful. “Just stay,” he begged. “Don’t run from this, from us, and I’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.”

“No more lies,” John said softly.

“No more lies,” Sherlock agreed. “Never again.”

“Not so much as a surprise birthday party,” John said, stepping in close to Sherlock and wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist.

Sherlock laughed, “Alright,” he agreed.

“Now,” John said as he unwrapped Sherlock from the sheet and stripped himself out of his pajama bottoms once again. “I do believe I asked you a question.” He pressed Sherlock into bed and then climbed in himself, covering their bodies with the sheet before straddling Sherlock’s hips and pressing his lips to the other man’s. “I’m quite keen on an answer.

Sherlock stared up at him, “I’ve answered all your questions,” he said. “It was only those times-” he started.

John cut him off, “No,” he said, not that question. “I asked you to marry me.”

Sherlock stopped breathing and stared up at John, “I,” he started, then broke off, “What?”

“Marry me,” John said. “All of this from the man who hates repeating himself. This is the fourth time you’ve made me ask you tonight.”

“Well, technically the only time you asked was the third, the rest were just a statement,” he said.

“Do you need roses?” John asked. “Did you want me to take you to dinner at a fancy restaurant? Get down on one knee?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock replied, grinning up at John.

“We could make it a game,” John suggested. “See how many places I can propose in to you before people start catching on. I bet loads of places give you free cake when you get engaged in their restaurant.”

Sherlock laughed, “Yes, I’ll marry you.” He cupped John’s cheek in one hand, “Of course I will.” He leaned up and pressed his lips to John’s. “I don’t need anything but you.”

And Sherlock was true to his word, he never kept another secret from John; not even the ones Rosie begged him to as she got older. It wasn’t always perfect, but it was honest and it was all either of them would ever need.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. 
> 
> At least for this work. I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Blessings <3


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